


What Keeps You Human

by FelOllie



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 'Cause I'm All About Having A Choice, Anchors, Angst and Humor, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Minor Stiles Stilinski/Malia Tate, Near Death Experiences, Non-Compulsive Mate Bonds, Not-your-typical Mate Bonds, Phoenix Jordan Parrish, Werewolf Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-17 09:38:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 89,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2305103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FelOllie/pseuds/FelOllie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn't supposed to go down the way it did. Christ, it wasn't ever supposed to go down at all, if Stiles was being completely honest. Having an entire pack at his back who wouldn't hesitate to shred someone should they even attempt to make a move against him had lulled Stiles into a false sense of security. He got to be too comfortable, too self-assured in his own survival. Overconfidence led to cockiness, led to taking too many unnecessary risks, led to Stiles finding himself in a position he never legitimately thought he'd be in.</p><p>Stiles was only ever supposed to be the boy who ran with wolves, not the boy who became one.</p><p>Or: When Stiles is fatally injured while on a mission with the pack, Scott makes the choice to turn him rather than letting him die. Stiles is an exceptional wolf, but struggles with control on the full moon, unable to find his anchor. </p><p>All of that could change when Derek returns from visiting Cora in South America.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bitten

**Author's Note:**

> Post-season 4 with a few differences:
> 
> -Boyd, Erica, and Allison are all alive.  
> -Isaac and Jackson never left Beacon Hills.  
> -Stiles and Malia still dated but they broke up a few weeks after Stiles turned.  
> -Kira and Malia are/get together.  
> -For the purposes of this story Parrish is a Phoenix. 
> 
> This fic was inspired by [this](http://hales-emissary.tumblr.com/post/74728826629/teen-wolf-bingo-bitten-he-answers-all-his) gif set made by the kickass **hales-emissary** , who was kind enough to let me play with their work. 
> 
> The rating for this fic will more than likely go up before all is said and done since I have a weakness for writing smut. I've no idea how many chapters it'll turn out to be but I'm hoping that's okay with you guys :)
> 
> As always: If you need me to warn/tag for anything else please, please, _please_ DO NOT hesitate to let me know.

It wasn't supposed to go down the way it did. Christ, it wasn't ever supposed to go down at all, if Stiles was being completely honest. Having an entire pack at his back who wouldn't hesitate to shred someone should they even attempt to make a move against him had lulled Stiles into a false sense of security. He got to be too comfortable, too self-assured in his own survival. Overconfidence led to cockiness, led to taking too many unnecessary risks, led to Stiles finding himself in a position he never legitimately thought he'd be in.

Stiles was only ever supposed to be the boy who ran with wolves, not the boy who became one.

 

*

 

"This is a terrible idea." Scott sighed resignedly, knowing there was little point in arguing when Stiles got onto an idea.

"Shut up." Stiles told him, affronted. His plans were awesome, okay? No matter what Scott or Jackson or Der- No matter what anyone had to say. "This is a wonderful idea, Scott."

Stiles' plans were brilliant. They'd saved their collective ass on more than one occasion and no one, not even the Alpha, could argue that. So what if this particular plan involved too much fire power and not nearly enough preparation? Stiles was confident in his plan making skills and Scott would just have to get on board.

"So, you're just hoping we get lucky?" Lydia questioned, eyes traveling quickly over the hastily drawn up map to where Isaac and Malia had found the last traces of the Catoblepas, a massive bull-like creature whose only vulnerable spots were mostly protected by a thick, impenetrable layer of onyx colored scales and who was sporting a thick mane and a massive rack of diamond-hard horns.

"Of course not!" Stiles defended, narrowing his eyes at her. "We don't need luck. Allison is a perfect shot." He nodded in her direction, giving her a confident smile which she returned, admittedly a bit hesitantly. "If we can distract the Catoblepas long enough for Allison to land a shot somewhere soft and fleshy, it'll weaken the thing and we can use the flash bang arrows to force it here." Stiles pointed to the spot on the map where Chris Argent, Kira, and Boyd were already setting up the trap. "Once it's in that clearing I'll close the mountain ash circle and then all we have to do is trigger the explosion and get the hell outta dodge. Poof! No more angry mutant armadillo."

"Your father is going to kill all of us when he finds out about this." Parrish grimaced, shifting uncomfortably in place.

Stiles waved a dismissive hand. "What do you care? You'll come back."

"The rest of us won't." Erica tossed in, flicking her blonde curls over one shoulder, her scarlet lips turned up in that ever present smirk.

"My dad isn't going to kill anyone." Stiles sighed, rolling up the map to shove it into his messenger bag before slinging it around his torso. "This thing has killed four people already. He'll just be glad that we put it down and no one else got hurt."

"Can we go now?" Malia asked, already inching toward the front door. "I'd really like to kill something."

"Progress." Stiles sighed, looking to Scott for the final verdict.

Scott's expression was pained, eyebrows drawn together over worried eyes. "I don't like it." he frowned hard at Stiles, who might have wavered if Scott didn't always look like an angry puppy when he pulled out that particular face.

"Noted." Stiles gave one sharp dip of his chin and headed for the door. "Now let's go kick some hulked out armadillo ass."

 

*

 

Everything went off without a hitch.

Until it didn't.

Allison managed to land her shot in a thin strip of exposed skin between where the Catoblepas scales ended and where his (definitely a boy if basic biology was to be believed) snarled tuft of a mane began. The creature let out an angry roar that shook the ground beneath the pack's feet, echoing around them and making those of them with supernatural hearing flinch. Far off in the distance even Stiles' human ears could hear the sound of a small landslide forming, a stream of boulders and thick clay-like dirt scraping down the side of a mountain.

"Go!" Scott had bellowed through the forest as the Catoblepas charged, mowing down anything its path, up to and including an ancient redwood that was nearly as wide as a car from one bumper to the other.

Stiles bolted, dodging trees and tearing through thick underbrush with no attention to spare for the way it grabbed at his pant legs, trying to stop him in place. He could hear the sounds of his pack circling wide around him, a chorus of growls punctuating the systematic flashes of light from Allison and Chris' exploding arrows. Stiles knew his objective by heart and focused on it. He made it to the furthest edge of the rigged clearing by the time the pack herded the Catoblepas into it, its raging red eyes blazing in a boarish head. Careful not to meet the creature's eyes directly, knowing full well how that particular story ended, Stiles smirked in victory, a handful of mountain ash clutched in his fist, ready to seal the barrier.

"Now!" Chris shouted when the creature cleared the mountain ash line laying in wait.

Stiles tossed the ash, focusing everything he had into the belief that it would work, that this purplish dust held the power to hold a rampaging beast. He waited for the shield to spring up, to feel the flare of magic in his chest that always accompanied a successful ash barrier. When it didn't come, Stiles realized that the tremors caused by the Catoblepas' roar must have shaken the line apart somewhere.

"Shit." he growled, already running the line closest to him as he hollered across the clearing. "There's a break in the line! Find it."

The pack spread out along the line, searching for the weak point. Chris and Allison stayed poised at either end of the clearing, ready and waiting to fire more flash bangs should the beast try to make a break for it. As it were, the thing was thrashing in the middle of the field, attempting to reach the arrow embedded in its neck with its teeth to yank the thing free, the poison Lydia concocted apparently enough to at least disorient and distract it.

"Here!" Jackson called from behind Stiles. "I got it."

Stiles changed direction, heading back the way he came with a new handful of ash at the ready. Unfortunately, the Catoblepas chose that moment, apparently startled by Jackson's reverberating shout, to get his shit together and charge. Head down, horns pointed right where Jackson was standing, too busy watching Stiles run to notice the giant fucking death machine headed right for him, the creature roared, kicking rivets into the soft ground as it made a desperate and furious bid for escape.

"Jackson!" Stiles cried, his voice cracking as it reached a pitch Stiles hadn't even known himself capable of. He pushed his legs to their limits, silently thanking Finstock for the ridiculous amount of suicides he'd made them do, and barreled along the edge of the line.

Jackson's eyes widened in horror as he turned, finally noticing the creature making a beeline straight for him. Before he could move of his own volition, however, Stiles body checked him out of the way, sending him sprawling sideways onto the ground with a grunt.

Throwing the ash down at his feet, Stiles felt relief wash through him at the sight of the familiar purple dust falling lightly toward the ground. He had a split second to congratulate himself on a job well done before his vision was filled with a looming black shadow and a flash of bone-white horns. No sooner had he registered exactly what he was seeing than something sharp pierced his belly, just below the bottom edge of his ribcage.

Searing pain tore through him, rushing out from where the beast had impaled him on one dirt encrusted horn to ravage through his entire body. Somewhere, someone was screaming and Stiles had no idea if it was him or not. His vision was going black and fuzzy at the edges, reminding him of the snow on old television sets, the gray and black static of a channel without a signal. Time seemed to stutter and stall as the creature shook its behemoth head, shaking Stiles like a ragdoll as it tried to free its horn from the ruined vestiges of his abdomen. Blood was hot and thick on his tongue, tasting of copper and something acrid that made his throat burn.

A wet, gurgling laugh shredded his chest on its way out when he felt the ash line form the barrier. Too little too late, his mind bellowed ferociously. The damage was already done but Stiles found a sliver of comfort in knowing that his dying act had been to seal the line, to trap the Catoblepas before it could hurt anyone else, before it could hurt his pack. If sacrificing himself meant that his pack got to survive?

Stiles was okay with that.

If not for the pain Stiles might have smiled at whoever had appeared at his side, their hands reaching out for him but hesitating, unsure if you were supposed to remove the thing sticking out of your friend's chest, or leave it in. Stiles didn't think it mattered, really. He was dead either way. What was a few more seconds in the grand scheme of things?

Agony made his knees weak as devastating pain ripped him apart at the seams, every nerve in his body feeling as though someone had taken a particularly dull cheese grater to them. His body went limp, nothing left inside him capable of keeping him upright. Whoever was at his side, he thought it was probably Scott, hoped and prayed and begged the universe to let it be Scott, their hand's shot out to catch him as he fell. The horn that had been shoved through him ripped free of his belly with a nauseating squelch and the world around him faded into nothing at all.

 

*

 

Opening his eyes felt like trying to drag a dead body over a sea of broken glass. The light wherever he was was blinding, searing his retinas and making his head throb, pulling a groan from his aching chest.

"Easy, Mr. Stilinski." a calm voice soothed from somewhere by his feet, or at least where he was pretty sure his feet were the last time he'd seen them. Stiles wasn't at all surprised to find the voice belonged to Deaton."I wouldn't suggest moving too quickly. Scott, would you be kind enough to close the blinds?"

Stiles heard the sound of feet shuffling away quickly, jeans dragging along the concrete floor with every step. His head pulsed with pain at the sound, his stomach rolling and bile climbing its way up his esophagus. The footsteps shuffled closer once the light stopped stabbing him through his eyelids, stopping right beside his head. A warm hand curled around his forearm, a reassuring squeeze, a brotherly gesture.

"Scott?" Stiles tried to croak, his throat dry as the Sahara and feeling like he'd swallowed molten metal as he attempted to turn his head and force his eyelids apart.

"It's probably better if you don't try to talk, Stiles." Scott's voice said gently. "Give yourself a chance to finish healing before you start trying to kill me."

Stiles wanted to ask why, why would he ever want to kill his brother, the only one he'd ever had, but his throat refused to work and he figured maybe Scott was right. Talking seemed like a bad plan for the time being.

A door opened somewhere, the creaky hinges screaming out for a good oiling. A few seconds later another door opened and the air in the room shifted as Allison's voice whispered, "They heard his heartbeat change."

"He's awake." Deaton confirmed softly. "Though I wouldn't advise the rest of the pack paying a visit just yet."

"We just want to know if he's... He won't die now, right?" Allison asked, her voice trembling. "It took?"

Stiles' heart thudded sickeningly behind his ribs, nausea bubbling in his gut. His entirely intact gut. The gut where a Catoblepas had stabbed him straight through. The gut that should be in tatters and absolutely should have killed him.

Fuck.

Stiles fought his eyelids open, the familiar sight of the veterinarian's clinic doing all of zero to soothe the fire roaring to life in his chest."You turned me?" he choked out accusingly, the words scrapping and clawing at his throat as he forced them past his lips.

"Stiles, please. You need to stay calm." Deaton urged, moving away from him.

"Calm?" Stiles wheezed as he shoved himself upright, wincing when the new pink skin below his ribs tugged. "I'm a fucking werewolf and you want me to stay calm?" Each word was torture on his vocal chords but Stiles was too angry to care.

"You were dying!" Scott defended his actions, his tone pleading with Stiles to understand even as he sicced his big brown puppy dog eyes on him. "That thing tore a hole right through your body, Stiles! I didn't know what else to do."

"So you bit me?!" Stiles snarled, pain shooting through his gums. Great, he had fangs to worry about now. His breath was coming in giant heaves, reminiscent of a panic attack but fueled by nothing but rage. The tips of his fingers felt like they were splitting apart and when he looked down at the hand curled protectively below his ribs he found claws gleaming up at him. Fucking wonderful.

He could hear the sounds of the rest of the pack shuffling around outside the door, inching closer nervously. It only served to make him angrier. As if he would ever hurt Scott! Even pissed off beyond reason the worst Stiles had ever done was chain him to a God damned radiator.

The fact that the pack was nervous made Stiles attempt to reign in the fury surging through his veins, to try to smother the nearly manic anger rippling just beneath his skin and get a grip on himself. He pulled up memories of breathing techniques he'd learned as a means of fending off panic attacks, hoping that it would help calm him before he lost control. It didn't help, really, but Stiles kept at it while Scott and Deaton argued quiet but urgent behind him.

"Stiles, find an anchor." Allison commanded, having snuck up and planted herself in front of him. "Your dad, Scott, Malia... Whatever it is that keeps you human, find it and use it."

Stiles heard her even through the thick fog swirling around inside his head. He tried focusing on all three of Allison's suggestions, tried to let them anchor him to his human side while his brand new wolf snarled and snapped angrily in his chest. Though he couldn't see himself, Stiles knew his eyes would be glowing Beta Gold so he kept them screwed shut.

"No!" Scott was whisper-shouting off to his left, something about a sedative.

Stiles couldn't focus on that while he was trying to stay human. "I can't. It's not working." he whimpered, feeling the bones in his face starting to vibrate, cracking and shifting in miniscule increments.

"You can do this, Stiles." Scott's voice cut through the fog in his head. "You were the one who taught me this shit, bro. You and Derek, remember? If anyone can control the shift it's you."

"Are you kidding?" Stiles panted through fangs that were just starting to make him lisp. "My self-control sucks."

"Not when it counts." Allison coached, smiling her sweetly dimpled smile at him. "You always find a way, Stiles. Find it now."

"If you'd like, I can sedate you until you've finished healing." Deaton offered evenly, syringe in hand.

"No." Stiles growled, his lips pulling back from his teeth as his eyes snapped open and his irises burned golden. The idea of being sedated scared him, made both sides of himself snarl and retreat.

The next time he blinked, Stiles was backed defensively into the furthest corner of the room, crouched low and gnashing his teeth. He wasn't aware of moving but there he was, fangs fully dropped and claws extended, thick sideburns sprouted from his face along with wide ridges that protruded from his forehead and widened the bridge of his nose. Fear and instinct churned in his mind, one side wanting to bolt while the other was fully prepared to fight his way out. The forest outside was calling him and all Stiles wanted to do was run for it, shift and get the hell out of there.

He'd barely moved to act on his instincts, eyes fixed on the immediate threat of Deaton's needle, when Scott roared. As a human the sound had rattled Stiles all the way down to his bones, shaken him to his core. As a wolf? Stiles folded to the floor without thought, cowering low to the ground and baring his throat for his Alpha as the sound vibrated every nerve, ever fiber of his being, and the shift was forced back.

"Shit." Scott's face crumpled, his eyes apologetic. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do that."

Panting and fighting the urge to keep his throat bared, Stiles shook his head as his bones settled back into their human shapes. "'S fine. Thanks." he slurred, tongue heavy but meeting nothing but human teeth.

"Once you find your anchor it'll be easier." Scott promised, reaching down to offer a hand to haul Stiles back to his feet.

Stiles nodded though he wasn't convinced. Scott's anchor was Allison when he first turned, and now was Allison and Isaac. Jackson's anchor was and always had been Lydia, Erica and Boyd were each other's, and Malia's was memories of her sister. Kira and Parrish didn't need anchors for some totally unfair bullshit reason, and Liam's was his mother and step-father. No one knew what Peter's anchor was but he didn't particularly count as pack anymore, regardless. With a twisting sensation behind his heart Stiles recalled that Derek's anchor had been anger once upon a time, though no one knew what it was now. The remaining Hale proved the pattern as nobody knew what Cora's anchor was either. She was still pack, even if she hadn't set foot back in Beacon Hills since she and Derek went to South America.

For the most part all of the wolves found success in using either their family or their significant others as anchors. If Stiles fell into their pack's norm his anchor should have been either Malia or his dad, or maybe even Scott. But none of those had helped him control the shift, none had helped him stay human.

"How am I supposed to find an anchor when the three most logical options didn't work?" Stiles asked the room at large. Three sets of shoulders shrugged in near perfect tandem and Stiles couldn't stop the growl from rumbling in his chest. "You guys are tons of helps. Thanks."


	2. There Might Be A Learning Curve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! So, I'm going to go ahead and up the rating from Teen and Up to Explicit now, instead of waiting. There isn't any Explicit type stuff in this chapter but I already know where it's going to appear and I'd rather everyone be made aware now rather than later.
> 
> Anywho, enjoy wolfie!Stiles learning how to wolf :)

So, it turned out that Scott was a total failwolf and made everything seem so much harder than it really had to be. Stiles took to being a wolf like dogs took to water, like paint took to a canvas and flame took to tinder.

It took him less than two weeks to figure out how to control his heartbeat so that he could force down a shift, and half that time to figure out how to call out the claws on his hands without shredding the hell out every pair of sneakers he owned. Unsheathing them one at a time took a little longer but Stiles mastered it just the same.

Flashing his eyes turned out to be Stiles' favorite pastime and therefore was the easiest to learn control over. He got a kick out of flickering between his normal human shade of honey brown and the burning intensity of Beta Gold, changing them between blinks just to mess with people. Scott elbowed him in the ribs whenever he caught him but the reprimand was lost to the amused upturn of the Alpha's lips.

He and Scott were back to normal after barely any time at all. After Stiles had called his father to say he was staying at Scott's for a few nights and had broken down in tears upon hanging up, realizing that if Scott hadn't done what he did the Sheriff would have lost both his wife and son. Scott giving Stiles the bite, allowing Stiles to stick around, to be there for his father the way he'd tried to do since they lost his mother... That was something that Stiles just couldn't be mad at Scott for.

Stiles managed a perfect shift, nearly painless and flawlessly controlled, nineteen days after he was bitten. It was in the middle of the preserve, surrounded by his pack, and Stiles had never felt more alive in his life. Running with wolves took on a whole other connotation when one could actually run _with_ them.

The wound to Stiles' belly had healed quickly, though a faint silverish sheen tinted the skin where a scar would have been had he stayed human. Assuming he could have survived a wound that fatal, which was impossible. He'd already been half-dead by the time Scott sank his teeth into his hip.

Stiles caught the rest of the story from Lydia, the most reliable source in the pack. According to her, it had indeed been Scott that caught Stiles, stopping him from a rough collision with the ground when he'd slipped free of the Catoblepas' horn. The picture Lydia painted was a grim one, streaked in red and shades of black, Scott bent over a dying Stiles', begging him to hold on while the rest of the pack closed ranks around them. It was Isaac; Sweetly vicious and endlessly loyal Isaac who had been the first to voice the thought the whole pack was trying not to face the reality of.

Stiles could see it painfully clear inside his head, gray soaked images formed from the scene Lydia related to him. He could see Isaac gripping tight to Scott's shoulder, his face morose and grief-stricken as he'd said, "Do it, Scott."

"He doesn't want to be a wolf!" Stiles could hear Scott argue, hear the desperate sob in his friend's voice as though he'd actually been awake to hear it in person.

"He wouldn't want to die, either!" He imagined that he could feel Erica's snarl rumble through him, tears streaking down her face unchecked as Boyd wrapped her up against his chest and held her while she fell apart.

"Do it." He heard Isaac repeat, watched as he pressed his nose into the side of Scott's ashen face while Allison and Jackson held up an emotionally wrecked Lydia, and Malia sank to her knees at Stiles' side, trembling hands hovering over his belly as though she could heal the wound slowly letting his life drain away.

Stiles' eyes stung as he listened to the story, Lydia gripping his hand so hard that his healing kicked in. She choked up when she thanked Stiles for giving his life in exchange for Jackson's. Until she punched him and called him a moron, anyway.

If Deaton could be believed, a werewolf would more than likely have survived being gored the way Stiles had been. He thought it figured that his last heroic act had been totally futile.

Jackson himself never said thank you, not that Stiles wanted to hear it in all honesty. Jackson simply showed up at Stiles' house one night a few days after Stiles had been turned, brandishing two large sausage and onion pizzas and a bottle of wolfsbane laced Jack Daniels. As far as either of them were concerned, nothing else ever had to be said on the subject.

Regardless of the pointlessness of his actions, though, Stiles wouldn't take them back. He'd managed to trap the Catoblepas before it crossed the ash line, its horn dislodging from his abdomen when the barrier tossed it back, and that was reason enough for him.

Chris Argent himself had shaken Stiles' hand and told him how proud he was, how brave Stiles had been to sacrifice so much for the pack. Stiles beamed at Parrish, who stood nearby shaking his head with a small smile playing at his lips. Kira and Liam told him excitedly about the explosion, both of them much more enthused than Stiles thought was strictly appropriate. He couldn't fault them, though. He was kind of upset he'd missed the fireworks himself.

Telling the Sheriff that his only son could now proudly join the ranks of Beacon Hills' very own band of misfits, official fangs and claws included, turned out to be a lot easier than Stiles had anticipated. He dreaded his father's reaction, worried that he wouldn't see his son the same way anymore. To absolutely no one's surprise, John barely blinked at the information, dragging Stiles into a hug that probably would have broken his ribs if he'd still been human, pretending not to cry as he thanked Scott for saving his boy.

Stiles needed to run after that. He drove out to the preserve and left his Jeep near where the Hale house used to stand, letting the wolf take over before his feet even hit the ground. Running while shifted was exhilarating in a way running as a human just _wasn't_. The air tasted sweeter on his tongue on its way to his lungs, the ground felt more solid beneath his bare feet than it ever had beneath sneakered ones. He felt better by the time he made four full loops of the preserve and decided to mosey through the woods for a while before heading back home.

Tracking critters through the trees and along the forest floor was a simple thing to do while he worked through the swirling thoughts bouncing around the inside of his skull. Scott encouraged him, saying it was good practice for tracking enemies and learning to identify scents. Rabbits were Stiles' favorite animals to track. They were quick and wily, bounding through the trees like fluffy little ninjas, as though they could predict where each one would spring up from the ground. He might have cried the one time he managed to catch a bunny, but no one else ever had to know that.

He most definitely cried when Scott taught him how to draw pain, pulling it as gently as he could manage from a kitten with a broken leg at the animal clinic, but Scott and Deaton both swore they'd take it to their graves. Stiles hadn't learned how to tell a lie from the truth through a heartbeat without error yet but he chose to trust them.

The hardest part of turning surprised him. He always thought learning control would be the hardest, especially during the full moon.

In all fairness, he still hadn't found an anchor by the time his first full moon rolled around and he slept through most of it thanks to Deaton's sedatives. Scott hated the idea, argued with Stiles the entire trip to the bank vault where Derek and Scott had rescued Boyd, Erica, and Cora what seemed like a lifetime ago. It was the only structure they knew for sure could hold an out of control werewolf if the sedatives wore off before the sun came up. Stiles simply wasn't willing to risk shifting and hurting someone. He made Scott promise not to open the vault door, no matter what, until the moon and the sun had traded places in the sky.

The first night was rough, Deaton's estimations off for the proper dosage. Stiles woke up already shifted about halfway through the night. By the time Scott came to let him out he'd already splattered the walls with his own blood and gouged long trails into both the walls and his skin with his claws. After that, Deaton doubled the dose and Stiles slept almost peacefully through the last two nights.

Control was hard, for sure. But, the most difficult part of turning was actually his relationship with Malia. There was something different about them after Stiles got the bite, something he couldn't figure out no matter how hard he tried. It drove him crazy for weeks, the illusive something that he couldn't put his finger on. Being with Malia used to be easy. Sure, teaching her how to be human wasn't the simplest task ever assigned to a teenager with ADHD but, just being together? That part had always been as easy as breathing.

Except that now, with both of them being Weres, it wasn't easy anymore. They snapped at each other for no reason, simply being in one anothers space enough to set them snarling. Scott hated roaring Stiles down, refused to do it after that first time, but he'd had no choice when Malia moved Stiles' laptop and Stiles went for her throat.

"Sometimes personal relationships, especially those between two Weres, don't survive the transition." Deaton had explained pragmatically when Stiles asked him about it. "The power shift is too much for them to handle, in some cases. When one of you starts out human and then takes the bite, the dynamics shift dramatically. It's understandable that you might feel differently about one another now."

At first Stiles thought that was bullshit. Pack dynamics had shifted, too, but you didn't see any of the others dragging Stiles' wolf to the surface over the dumbest things. Even Jackson, douche to rival all douches, didn't get under Stiles' skin the way Malia did. The rest of the pack eagerly accepted Stiles as a werewolf, loved having him finally able to run with them the way he hadn't been able to while human. Nothing changed so dramatically within their ranks the way it did between just Malia and Stiles.

After the laptop incident, Stiles had to concede that maybe Deaton was on to something after all.

"I don't think my wolf likes her." Stiles confided to his father one evening while they sat in the living room, lounging around the television.

"Oh?" the Sheriff asked, brows hiked. "Is that even possible?"

"I honestly have no idea." Stiles sighed, rubbing anxiously at the back of his neck. "But if it is, and he doesn't, what am I supposed to do? How are we supposed to be together?"

John hummed thoughtfully, his eyes sympathetic. "I think you have to face the very real possibility that you won't be able to, Stiles. Your wolf is a part of you now, kiddo. From what I understand, what Chris and Derek have explained to me, there may be two halves but you're still just one whole. You understand?"

Stiles resolutely ignored the D word and focused on the rest of what his father said. "Yeah, I know that part."

John narrowed his eyes exaggeratedly, earning a snort of laughter from Stiles, but smiled as he continued, "My point is, you can't do something just because you want to, not if it makes your wolf rebel. And vice versa. If you keep working against each other you're only going to make things harder for yourself. Then who knows how long it might take you to find your anchor?"

"Deaton said I can't be my own anchor because I don't value my humanity." Stiles admitted grumpily, a fact that he resented but had to admit sounded about right.

"You gave your life for your pack." the Sheriff pointed out, not without a bit of heat. "I think you've already proven as much."

Stiles grimaced but didn't disagree, couldn't if he wanted to.

He made it all of two more weeks before pulling eject on his relationship with Malia. He knew they weren't being fair to one another, fighting to stay together while their animal instincts fought to be apart.

Malia was actually relieved when Stiles told her that he thought they should break-up. She'd thought the same thing for several weeks but hadn't wanted Stiles to lose the control he'd found by losing what they used to be. It was a decently amicable split in the long run. They agreed to stay friends and Stiles was pleased to feel his wolf settle into the role of friend and pack mate more comfortably than he ever had as her boyfriend.

It was three weeks after that when Stiles walked in on Malia kissing Kira in Scott's kitchen during a pack meeting, Kira backed up against the refrigerator while Malia's hands held her tight around the waist, pulling their bodies flush.

"Yep, I'm not touching that." Stiles shook his head, backing out of the room without the chips he'd gone in for.


	3. Not So Easily Ignored Now, Is It?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! Some Sterek interaction :)

Stretched out on Lydia's bedroom floor, Stiles stared menacingly at the ceiling and tried his hardest to blend into the carpet beneath him.

"Come on, Stiles." Scott pled, peering over the edge of Lydia's bed to make puppy eyes down at him. "Please? I promised I'd go over and open some windows, air the place out and drop off a few necessities, but I have to pick Allison and Isaac up in twenty minutes."

"I don't see how this is my problem." Stiles shrugged, ignoring the way his stomach crawled into his throat and set up camp.

Scott huffed an irritated breath. "Dude, you're the only other one of us allowed in Derek's loft without Derek actually being there. Other than Isaac and Lydia, but-"

"I have things to do." Lydia called from her en-suite bathroom, curling iron wrapped up in strawberry blonde strands.

Nodding, Scott's pleading eyes intensified. "Stiles, if I miss this dinner, Allison and Chris will skin me and hang me above their fireplace. These other hunters are no joke, man."

"Can't you just go to the loft after?" Stiles whined. He knew he was fighting a losing battle but he was determined to go down swinging. "Dude is a full grown werewolf. Why can't he do his own grocery shopping?"

Scott rolled off the side of the bed, landing with a solid thud beside him on the carpet. Stiles didn't look over to see the sympathetic frown turning down his brother's lips.

"Derek will be home in the morning," Scott said quietly, as though lowering his voice would somehow make the words themselves less grating, less likely to cut where they landed. "And I don't know how late dinner will run. He's been driving since Mexico City, Stiles. He's gonna be exhausted by the time he gets home. I'm just trying to look out for my beta, the same way I would for any of the rest of you."

Stiles let his eyes fall shut, his fists clenching at his sides, and silently cursed Scott to Hell and back for using his Alpha instincts as justification for torturing Stiles. Scott knew how much he was asking of his best friend, how much Stiles would rather be absolutely anywhere in the galaxy other than near Derek or his loft. As the only other person in existence who knew just how pissed Stiles was at Derek, he expected a certain amount of leeway from Scott when it came to the subject.

Since the moment Derek took off again, headed for South America and Cora, Stiles refused to even acknowledge his name in conversation, would change the subject if it came up and glare at whoever dared utter it. Petty? Sure. But it was what it was and Stiles didn't see it changing anytime soon.

It wasn't that he didn't understand why Derek bailed on them, yet again. What happened in Mexico; Derek dying only to come back howling, Scott becoming a berzerker and Kira almost following in Derek's fatal footsteps, Peter turning out to be the mastermind behind Kate's plan and attacking the pack, including his own daughter... Not to mention the whole thing with the Dead Pool and the insurgence of assassins within Beacon Hills.

All of it was enough to have anyone in desperate need of a vacation. Hell, if Stiles could have afforded it he would have been happily planting his ass in the sand of some desert island, enjoying the peace and quiet of solitude for a change. Instead, Stiles and the rest of the pack stayed in BH, protecting it and its citizens while occasionally being forcibly turned into creatures of the night. Unlike Derek, they didn't have the luxury of taking off whenever things got heavy.

Stiles understood Derek wanting to visit his sister, to see someone who really got what it meant for Derek to gain the ability to shift into the full wolf form, someone who knew the Peter that Peter was before the fire, who would get why Derek still struggled with severing pack ties to his uncle.

The part he wholeheartedly could not understand was the fact that Derek left at all. He just couldn't wrap his head around it. One would think he'd be used to it at that point, honestly. Leaving was something Derek excelled at, after all. He'd made a habit of it, taking off whenever the shit hit the fan. Sure, he stuck around long enough to help defeat whatever supernatural dickhead was hellbent on wiping out the pack or just straight up wreaking havoc in BH, but once the dust started to settle? Bailing was Derek's go-to means of dealing with the fall out. It was practically his signature move, if one discounted his patented bitch face and ability to communicate with only his eyebrows, of course.

The other reason Stiles was so angry, the reason that he would die rather than admit, was because he was hurt. He thought that things would be different this go round. The pack was closer, more cohesive. They'd become a family somewhere along the way and Stiles thought that family was supposed to stick together, the way he and Scott always had. Derek had changed over the years, become a little less sharp around the edges, a little more open and quicker to smile. His presence in Stiles' life had become something Stiles relied on, something that he was reluctant to accept but once he had, couldn't imagine living without.

Waking up to a text that simply said _'Going to visit Cora. Be back eventually'_ , twisted something in Stiles' heart that hadn't managed to untwist in the whole three months Derek had been gone. Angry and bitter was probably a terrible way to deal with missing someone, but Stiles was nothing if not stubborn and committed to what he started. He had abandonment issues as it was and he didn't need Derek exacerbating them.

Scott shifted closer to Stiles' side, dragging him back from the ugly snarl of his thoughts. "Look, I know that you have issues with him-"

Stiles barked out a laugh that made Lydia jump and drop something in the bathroom, swearing at him under her breath.

"Issues, Scott? My issues with Derek Hale could fill the Library of Congress." Stiles met Scott's eye, let him see the Beta Gold bleeding into whiskey brown, triggered by the heavy wave of emotions.

"Please, Stiles?" Scott tried again, his eyes wide and earnest where they blinked owlishly above a pouted mouth. "I'll owe you big time."

Rolling his eyes, Stiles levered himself up off the floor and tamped down on the annoyed growl building in his chest. "You already owe me, dude. But, Fine." he relented. "Give me your credit card, though, because I am not spending my own money on him."

Scott was on his feet and digging his wallet from the pocket of his jeans in an instant, smiling brightly at him. "You're the best, bro." he praised as he slapped the little plastic rectangle into Stiles' palm.

"That's well established, Scott. Where the hell have you been?" Stiles smirked, tucking the card into his pocket as he headed for the door, stopping only long enough to peck a kiss to Lydia's cheek on his was out.

 

*

 

Dust and stale air greeted him when he slid open the door to Derek's loft, tickling his nose and making him sneeze before he even stepped inside. He left the door open as he walked through to the kitchen, dropping two bags of groceries onto the counter and flinging open the window above the sink. He staunchly refused to pay any mind to the pang in his chest at being there, surrounded by Derek but further away than he'd felt in months.

Leaving the non-perishables on the counter, Stiles put away what needed to be refrigerated before he moved through the rest of the loft, opening windows and convincing himself that dusting was absolutely not his responsibility despite what his mother's voice whispered in the back of his mind.

After Peter had been committed to Eichen House, Derek moved into the upstairs bedroom. The living room looked a little strange without a queen size bed taking up space but Stiles was glad that Derek seemed to settle into his home a bit more. It gave the place a sense of permanence it had been severely lacking, made it feel more like a home and less like a crash pad.

Standing at the bottom of the spiral staircase, Stiles debated. He'd done what Scott had asked. By all rights he was in the clear as far as his responsibilities went. But, Scott had said Derek would be exhausted when he got home, after all. Would it be so difficult to simply do the kind thing and swap out Derek's musty sheets for clean ones? He'd no doubt want to collapse into bed the moment he was home and it would be so easy for Stiles to do one tiny little thing to facilitate that.

Sighing at his own stupidity and inability to not take care of the people he loved, despite how pissed off at them he was, Stiles climbed the staircase. He grabbed clean sheets from the linen closet in the hallway before heading for Derek's bedroom. The moment he opened the bedroom door though, Stiles froze in place. He could feel the Gold burn into his eyes as the scent of the room, of _Derek's den_ , assaulted him. Stiles' head whirled, making him dizzy in its intensity.

"Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me." he growled, the sound hitching into a whine halfway through.

His wolf was practically purring, so content was he to roll around in Derek's overwhelming scent. Somewhere inside Stiles everything shifted just a fraction and snapped into place, knocking him breathless. In a single suspended moment Stiles felt like he suddenly fit better inside his skin, like the low buzz that kept him and his wolf from settling, from being one solid entity rather than two opposing ones, was simply gone. Deep behind Stiles' ribcage, where before had been an uncomfortable sort of emptiness, there was now a solid feeling of connection between Stiles and his wolf. His eyes melted back into their human shade and Stiles had to reach out a hand to grip the door frame in order to keep himself standing, his knees feeling like jelly under him while he breathed what felt like his first breath with new lungs.

"Of course." He hissed between gritted teeth, shaking his head and making himself cross the room to Derek's bed on unsteady legs. "Of course it's you." he snapped to absolutely no one as he ripped the sheets from the bed and tossed them across the room. "Why wouldn't you be my anchor? It makes total fucking sense."

Stiles made the bed as angrily as one possibly could, grumbling under his breath the whole time about the idiocy of not only developing _feelings_ for asshole werewolves but unintentionally coming to rely on them so heavily that they turned into the only thing capable of reminding you that you were still human beneath your wolf's snarling facade.

When he finished tucking the new sheets under the mattress, Stiles quickly stuffed the used ones into the hamper inside Derek's closet, fighting the urge to roll around in them with every ounce of strength he had. Apparently, having an emotional connection to your anchor intensified the warm and fuzzies, if the new affinity Stiles had for Derek's scent was anything to go by. He stopped to open the window beside the bed, grateful for the small reprieve from the overwhelming scent of the room as fresh air swirled in around him.

"And here I was thinking this werewolf thing wouldn't be so bad." Stiles ranted as he made his way back downstairs. "What a welcome home present. 'Hey Derek, how was South America? By the way, I'm sort of a werewolf now. Oh, no, it's all good. Yeah, except for the fact that you are apparently the anchor to my humanity, everything is just fucking peachy."

He was glad no one else was around to hear him bitch all the way back to his Jeep, or to hear his desperate and near hysterical call to Lydia when he was already on his way back to her house.

 

*

 

"Stilinski!"

Stiles jumped, barely managing to catch the phone knocked from his lap before it could crash to the floor. "Sorry, what?" he questioned, blinking up at Finstock who was standing a few feet away, looking as though that hadn't been the first time he'd called Stiles' name.

Coach narrowed his eyes at Stiles, jabbing a finger toward his face. Stiles crossed his eyes in order to follow it. "There are still three days until vacation, Stilinski. I expect to have your full attention until then."

"Got it, Coach. My bad." Stiles nodded, discreetly shifting away from the finger hovering uncomfortably close to the tip of his nose.

When Finstock turned his back, Stiles slouched back onto his desk and fought the urge to let his mind wander again. His ADHD may have been mostly cure by the bite but old habits died hard. A severe lack of sleep didn't help his case but there was nothing he could about that now. How was he expected to sleep when he had Derek Hale rattling around inside head like a squeaky wheel that wouldn't shut the fuck up about needing a good greasing?

Huh. That sounded dirtier and dirtier the more he thought about it.

"Hey." Kira murmured from the desk right behind his, her voice low enough that only he and Isaac, who was on the other side of the room watching them, could hear her. "Are you okay? You seem... Edgy. And you don't smell right." She wrinkled her nose even though he couldn't see her.

"I'm fine." Stiles mumbled back, hoping she wouldn't call him on the lie. "Didn't sleep well last night." Or, you know, not at all.

He hadn't told any of the pack, save for Lydia, about having found his anchor. Partially because he didn't know how to explain why Derek was the one thing that kept him tethered to his humanity and partially because he didn't think he'd ever live down the humiliation Jackson would no doubt rain down upon him. Telling Lydia was more about necessity than anything else, though he trusted her implicitly. If he could have spared himself the embarrassment of having to admit everything to her, he would have.

Isaac, far too observant for his own good, muttered, "Derek's home, you know. Texted when he hit the BH border."

Stiles tensed, a fresh flicker of temper sparking in his chest. Checking his texts as subtly as he could manage, he found nothing that wasn't there the minute before. Temper melded seamlessly into a hot stab of angry disappointment. Derek had texted Isaac that he was home, probably Scott too, but hadn't bothered to let Stiles know? It was a dick move on his part, Stiles couldn't help but think.

"Good for Derek." Stiles snapped, earning himself a few confused glances from the students around him and a nice glare from Coach.

The bell rang for lunch and Stiles was out of his seat before it finished its clanging. Kira was kind enough to leave him be, heading off to meet Malia rather than hanging around to pester him with questions. Isaac, on the other hand, fell into step right beside him, slinging an arm around his shoulders.

"He didn't text you, did he?" Isaac guessed, his tone empathetic and not at all mocking but making Stiles' skin prickle defensively nonetheless.

"No idea." Stiles lied through his teeth. "Don't particularly care."

Isaac steered them toward Stiles' locker, where Scott and Allison were undoubtedly already waiting. "Who are you lying to, Stiles? Me or you?" he asked, the words gentle but grating nonetheless.

Stiles didn't even attempt to stop the growl from leaving his throat.

"Hey, don't bite my head off." Isaac frowned, cupping a hand around the back of Stiles' neck to soothe him. "I just figured that since you and Malia are done, you'd stop dancing around your feelings for Derek."

Snarling at a pack mate, the Alpha's second for Christ's sake, in the middle of the junior's hallway was a terrible idea but Stiles went with it anyway. "I do not have feelings for Derek."

Isaac arched one unimpressed eyebrow. "Tell that to your heartbeat."

If snarling was a bad plan, lunging for Isaac was probably the worst idea Stiles could have come up with. Fortunately, Scott had impeccable timing and appeared in time to wrap an arm around Stiles' waist to prevent him from making a scene.

"What the hell, man?" Scott questioned, baffled.

Stiles and Isaac were close now and days, unlike they'd been in the beginning. A fight between them was as unlikely as walking in on Jackson learning to do the samba from a mermaid. Shit like that just didn't happen.

"It's not his fault." Isaac said, watching Stiles sag back into Scott's chest. "I was needling him about-"

"Fuck this." Stiles spat angrily, jerking out of Scott's arm and glaring at the small number of their pack that had come to investigate. "I'm out. Call me if someone's dying. Otherwise? I don't want to hear it."

Erica made to step forward, a frown pulling down the corners of her mouth, when Stiles turned to leave but Boyd put a hand on her shoulder to stop her. "Just let him breathe." he told her softly.

Stiles kind of really loved Boyd.

He made it to the parking lot and his Jeep without anyone following him, trying to focus on something other than his totally bullshit anchor in order to stay human. It worked well enough, his claws barely beginning to prick at his fingertips as he climbed in and slammed the Jeep's door behind him. By the time he pulled onto Main Street he was able to beat back the shift without focusing on Derek, and was already feeling guilty for his outburst. Not guilty enough to go back and apologize, though. He'd take Isaac out for burgers later, set things right.

Stiles' frustration with Derek, however, was nearing atomic levels. How could he come back to Beacon Hills, come home, and not say a word? Stiles had no doubt that the asshole had texted the rest of the pack to announce his prodigal return. How was it that Stiles didn't rank high enough in Derek's book to warrant a text of his own? Finding out from the pack rather than the man himself that Derek was indeed back within their territory left a bitter taste in Stiles' mouth.

Before he knew it, he was pulling into his driveway and throwing the Jeep in park. His father's cruiser was gone, meaning that he wouldn't be home to ask Stiles any questions about his repetitive ventures into truancy, which was good. He wasn't entirely confident in his ability to have a rational conversation just then.

Letting himself into the house, Stiles instantly went on alert, an all too familiar scent wafting down the hall from the living room. With an irritated growl that thankfully sounded more human than wolf, Stiles dropped his bookbag beside the door and headed for the kitchen. If Derek thought for a minute that Stiles was going to come to him, he was out of his mind.

Stiles was halfway through a can of Coke, perched on the counter beside the sink, when Derek came into the kitchen, scowling like Stiles was the one breaking and entering. Stiles was honest enough to admit he let his eyes slide over Derek, taking in his perfectly coiffed hair and skimming down his torso, pulse hitching at the way Derek wore his burgundy Henley open at his throat and his jeans slung low on his hips.

When Stiles didn't speak, Derek sighed. "You're still angry."

Stoic and silent was Stiles' new mantra.

Derek's shoulders fell, his eyes skirting down and away. "Look, I know that the way I said goodbye," Stiles snorted derisively and Derek glared harder at the cabinet between Stiles' feet, "wasn't exactly the best way to handle things. But, I'm home now. Can't we just... Go back to the way things were?"

Stiles bit his lips closed on an angry retort, tasting blood but not giving a single shit about it.

Derek eyed him carefully, as if looking for something, a foothold to grab hold of and drag them back to even ground. "Will you at least tell me why both you and your house smells like an unfamiliar wolf?" he asked, hoping to startle an honest response out of Stiles.

Stiles stared hard at the can of soda in his hand, fighting the urge to scratch at the rough woven strand of rope tied around his ankle, hidden beneath the leg of his jeans. Lydia Martin was his favorite person in the whole mother fucking world.

"I don't think it's really any of your business." Stiles said tightly.

Derek's eyebrows rose toward his hairline. "What about Scott and Malia?" he asked haughtily, thinking he had Stiles backed into a corner. "Is it any of their business?"

"They both know who the wolf is, Derek." Stiles smirked coldly at Derek's obvious surprise at hearing the truth echoed in his heartbeat. "Any other questions?"

Derek schooled his features into a blank mask, his eyebrows twitching as if to spite him. "We're pack, Stiles. You're going to have to get over it at some point, and I've got all the time in the world."

"Until the next time you decide to split, right?" Stiles mocked heatedly. "Because we both know it's just a matter of time before life here gets to be too much and you run away. Again."

He kicked himself for bringing it up, for laying half his cards on the table, but was slightly vindicated when Derek flinched minutely.

"I wasn't running away." Derek sighed dejectedly, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "I just needed-"

"To see Cora, to get some space from Peter's bullshit, to learn how to control your full shift, to get away from the pack, away from m-" Stiles cut himself off, closing his eyes and taking a steadying breath. "Pick an excuse, Derek, any excuse." he ground out, eyes completely human when they opened.

"You know it wasn't like that." Derek argued, advancing on him, eyes sharp. "I just needed some room to breathe. Is that so hard to understand?"

"No, it's really not." Stiles struggled to keep the growl out of his voice, to keep his fangs from dropping. He found it morbidly amusing that the thing sending him hurtling toward a shift was the very same thing keeping him human. "But you know what, Derek? The rest of us needed to breathe, too. We just found a way to do it without abandoning our pack."

"I did not _abandon_ you!" Derek snarled, hands coming out of his pockets with claws already extended and the scent of anger leaking out of every pore of his skin. "I was always going to come back, Stiles. There was never any chance that I wouldn't."

Eyes pricking with heat, Stiles focused hard on the scent of Derek as he closed in, letting it lock him into place before he shifted and let the wolf he'd so carefully hidden out into the open. "Just go home, Derek. You and I have nothing to talk about. I think you made that pretty clear when you _texted_ me to tell me you were leaving and then didn't text at all to tell me you were home."

Derek stopped mid-stride a few feet away, even that proximity making Stiles' wolf whimper pitifully in his head. "I didn't text you when I got back because I was going to stop by after school. The only reason I'm here now is because Scott called to warn me that you might be on your way to rip me a new one."

Stiles barked a laugh at that, hoarse and jagged. "Scott's trying to get his furry ass kicked." he snapped.

Derek's eyebrows did a weird wriggle, unsure if they were angry or amused at that. "Trouble in paradise?"

Stiles almost smiled before he remembered why he spent the previous three months pissed at the stupidly attractive werewolf currently looming in his kitchen, and the last hours of yesterday begging Lydia to blow off plans with Jackson to make him a scent masking charm just to delay the inevitable moment when Derek found out he'd been turned. The anchor bomb was never, ever going to be dropped if Stiles could help it.

"Go home, Derek." Stiles repeated, ignoring his wolf's whining.

Derek hesitated, clenching his fist as though trying to stop himself from reaching out. Stiles could smell the storm of emotions wafting off of him, a spicy combination of annoyance and frustration punctuated with something that smelled like arousal but had to be literally anything else, the ever present scent of pack lingering beneath all of it.

"Fine." Derek eventually nodded, one short movement. "But this isn't over."

Stiles shivered but covered it by tossing his empty can into the sink. "Whatever you gotta tell yourself, Big Bad."


	4. Words Like Daggers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna go ahead and apologize for the way this chapter ends. I'm a horrible person, I know.
> 
> I still love you guys, though!
> 
> Edited to add: So, I'm a dumb ass. When I originally published this chapter I left out the entire first section and am now kicking myself repeatedly. I added it for those who are interested in seeing Derek's reaction to Stiles' rebuff at the end of the previous chapter.

No matter what Stiles said, Derek was not running away. Just because he was in fact running, didn't mean that he was running _away_.

Leaving the Stilinski house, he didn't even try to pretend he was calm enough to do anything at all other than head straight for the preserve. Peeling out in the Toyota wasn't anywhere near as satisfying as it had been in the Camaro but Derek gave it his best shot, regardless.

He was so frustrated with Stiles' attitude, his reluctance to cut Derek even just an inch or two of slack, that he was already struggling to hold back the shift before he reached the border of Hale land and the relative safety of the forest. That, in and of itself, was enough to ratchet up his anger another degree or fifty.

Fighting for control wasn't something Derek had a lot of present day experience with. The last time he'd really had to, he was just a pup. Growing up in a houseful of other wolves- Older, more experienced wolves who were there to offer not only support but tips on how to reign in the wolf even when he was raging -control had been easy enough to learn. Since puberty and the swell of hormones that ushered it in, the only times Derek actually had to put significant effort into control were the full moon, especially the last few, and those days when he was feeling particularly wolfish and Stiles came around reeking of, well... Stiles. Other than those occasions Derek's control was second nature, something he didn't really even have to think about.

Reaching the preserve, Derek didn't hesitate to slam his way out of the car, stripping as he went. He tossed his clothes back into the driver's seat, turned on his heel, and in the very next moment his body exploded into the shift. His bones cracked and rearranged, putting him down on four legs with a fleeting sense of pain and a shudder that rippled beneath his pelt, zinging from the soft velvet of his inky black snout to the very tip of his tail.

Derek let his legs carry him deep into the forest while he tried to lose himself in his instincts instead of drowning in the undertow of his thoughts. He hadn't been able to escape the dark snarl of his thoughts since the second he'd stepped foot into Stiles' bedroom, climbing through the window like he'd done from the very beginning. The moment the scent of a strange wolf reached his nose, soaked into every crack and crevice of Stiles' space, Derek's body had been pulled tighter than a bow string. His muscles refused to uncoil, bunching and straining as if preparing for a fight. Something about the scent was almost familiar, teasing at his senses until his wolf howled in frustration, unable to place it. It was like his mind identified the scent but there was a disconnect somewhere inside his head that wouldn't allow the information to actually be read, like his brain was encoding it for some unfathomable reason.

Even now, tearing through the trees at speeds no normal wolf was capable of, Derek couldn't outrun his thoughts or the dark cloud that followed him, taunting him with the memory of the frigid look Stiles had leveled him with.

Stiles was pissed, Derek knew. He'd known all the while he was gone that coming home wouldn't be all welcome parties and warm greetings. Derek fucked up and he knew it, didn't see a point in trying to pretend otherwise. Leaving with nothing more than a simple text was a terrible way to handle leaving, of saying goodbye. But, while Stiles thought it was because Derek simply didn't care enough to say goodbye in person, Derek knew he couldn't have left if he'd tried had he let himself do it face to face.

Being that close, smelling Stiles' intoxicating scent, the scent that Derek had come to associate with family and trust, home and an emotion so consuming he was terrified to even name it, Derek knew he never would have been able to tear himself away, not from that. Not from Stiles, the one person in the world who sometimes looked at Derek like... Like he was more than a pawn, more than a weapon, just... _More_.

So, Derek took the cowardly way out and sent the text, then hauled ass out of town before he changed his mind, not taking calls from the pack for the duration of his absence just to avoid the inevitable confrontation his cowardice would eventually lead to.

Going to see Cora had been good for him. Spending time with her, running through the rain forest with her in the full wolf form, had been exactly what he needed to get his head together. Cora helped him let go of his anger toward Peter and what he'd done, helped Derek find a way to accept that the uncle they both loved was long gone and the sadistic monster locked up in Eichen House just wasn't the man they knew.

She'd teased him mercilessly when she found out that anger was no longer his anchor, and the taunts got so much worse when she realized Stiles was his new one. He tried to explain that it wasn't how it sounded, that they were still just friends, but Cora didn't buy it for a second.

"Who'd have thought." She'd smiled their mother's smile, making Derek's stomach twist. "My big brother found himself a mate. A lanky, sarcastic, dubiously moral mate, but a mate nonetheless."

"He's not lanky." Derek snorted, shoving her sideways on the blanket they'd spread out beneath the sky. "You should see him now. He grew into his limbs."

"Maybe someday he'll even grow into his mouth." Cora deadpanned and then cackled, Derek unable to stop himself from laughing with her.

Coming home was never going to be easy, but Derek had hoped that maybe things could be different when he got back. The whole drive up from Mexico City he flirted with the idea of telling Stiles how he felt, putting all of it out there the way Cora suggested.

"What's the worst that could happen?" She'd asked seriously, lifting one shoulder in a shrug.

"Besides blatant rejection and causing a rift within the pack?" Derek snarked, dodging the slap she aimed for his head.

He'd considered it, even managed to convince himself that being honest with Stiles about his feelings wasn't going to ruin his own tentative relationship with Malia, something he very much wanted to avoid if at all possible. She was the only blood relation he had in Beacon Hills now and he didn't want to do anything that might jeopardize that.

But then everything changed with that single scent, the new wolf. It wasn't just that the scent existed in the first place, or that it hovered around Stiles like a fog. The fact that the scent was everywhere within the house, layered in like it belonged there, was what had Derek and his wolf gnashing their teeth as they darted across a stream, splashing as they went. Stiles wasn't supposed to smell like wolf, not unless that wolf was pack. Worse, Derek couldn't even object to Stiles spending his time with a strange wolf, not if both Malia and Scott, Stiles' girlfriend and Alpha, respectively, were aware and accepting of said wolf.

Roaring out his frustration, making the forest around him erupt in the sound of scurrying feet and flapping wings as every creature within several miles rushed to safety, Derek launched himself over a fallen log, his claws gouging deep marks into its bark, and barreled through a dense thicket of trees.

It was a long while before he felt in control enough to shift back. He'd already made several circuits of the woods, ran all the way to the northern border of their territory and back by the time he ambled back toward where he'd left his SUV and found the presence of mind to let the wolf slip away. He redressed on autopilot, drove home feeling drained but better than he had before his run.

He chugged an entire bottle of water while standing in the middle of his kitchen, trying with all his might to ignore the lingering scent of Stiles still drifting around his loft. The moment he'd stepped into the loft that morning he'd been bowled over by Stiles' scent, hanging in the air like a warm greeting and a delicious torture all rolled into one. Opening every single window in the place had been good foresight on his part, he couldn't help but think. If he'd come home after his confrontation with Stiles, the teen's scent still heavy in the air, he might have lost his mind all over again.

As it were, he was so distracted by the scent that had long ago woven itself into his very DNA that he didn't notice the faint trace of wolf until he was already on his way upstairs, intent on collapsing into bed rather than on the couch as he'd done earlier that morning, too exhausted to drag himself up the spiral staircase.

Falling into bed turned out to be more of an exercise in restraint than the relief Derek had been hoping for, however. It was hard enough to relax with Stiles swimming through his bloodstream but it became nearly impossible when he reached his bedroom only to find Stiles' scent clinging to his sheets, the same wolf scent that cloaked Stiles and his house there as well, making Derek's wolf snarl and thrash. Still, the overwhelming scent of Stiles was dizzying, had Derek's cock plumping against his thigh and straining to be touched.

If Derek caved and jerked off in those sheets, covering the other wolf's scent with his own and breathing in the high inducing blend of his and Stiles' scents combined as one?

Well, no one was there to see.

 

*

“What is wrong with you?” Erica posed the question, curled into Boyd's side on Stiles' couch, the Sheriff on the opposite end with his feet propped up on the coffee table and the TV remote in his hand.

“I've been trying to figure that out for years.” John winked at her, shrugging at the indignant squawk his son let out.

“You guys are supposed to be on my side!” Stiles protested indignantly. 

Boyd chuffed a soft laugh, grinning over the top of Erica's head. “Over Derek? Think that through, Stiles.”

“Just because he was your Alpha? That was, like, forever ago. I thought you loved me!” He wasn't pouting, per se. He was just baffled by Erica and Boyd's eagerness to side with Derek when he was so clearly in the wrong.

Erica snorted.”We do love you, Batman.” she assured. Some of the comfort of that statement was dampened by her eyes rolling in their sockets. “But, we also love Derek. Like it or not, he was the one who turned us, the one who taught us how to be wolves. Derek saved us, in more ways than one. If anyone understands loyalty through all the bullshit, it should be you.”

“But-”

“Besides.” Boyd added, narrowing his eyes at Stiles. “Don't you think you're being a little hard on the dude? So he took off again. Big deal. He came back, didn't he? He always does.”

“That's not the point!” Stiles informed them bitterly. 

“What is the point then, Stiles?” John asked, brows lifted expectantly. 

Erica mimicked the expression, her eyes glinting wickedly. “Yes, Stiles. What is the point? Are you pissed off at him because he left? Or, could it maybe be because he left _you_?”

John's eyebrows might as well have been migrating with how far south they dipped at that. “Derek? Really?” he questioned. 

“Thank you, Erica.” Stiles sneered, flashing his eyes. 

She beamed at him, gleeful at his misery. “You're welcome, boo.”

Stiles sighed, crossing his arms defensively over his chest. “Maybe.” he told his father, watching for his reaction.

The Sheriff frowned contemplatively, pondering that information. “Well, I can't say I didn't see that coming.” he muttered after a minute.

“Excuse me?” Stiles balked, shooting forward in his recliner. 

Lifting his shoulders just to let them fall, John smiled slightly as Erica muffled her laughter in Boyd's massive chest. “Kid, anyone that can't see the way you two look at each other is blind.” the Sheriff informed him.

“Not true.” Erica tossed in and Stiles could have kissed her. “Deucalion was mostly blind, and even he noticed the eye-fucking.”

Stiles took back every nice thing he'd ever said about her and replaced them with the most vicious insults he could think of, including, “You are the Devil and I denounce you as my Catwoman.”

She stuck her tongue out at him as Boyd laughed and John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as though trying to stop his brain from even registering Erica's words.

“None of this is relevant.” Stiles ground out, irritated and embarrassed. When had his entire pack decided to stop ignoring his feelings in favor of taunting him with them instead? “Derek coming back doesn't make up for the time he was gone, okay? He can't just strut back into town and pretend that nothing's changed.”

Erica's eyes softened as realization dawned, her smirk replaced with a sympathetic frown. “You mean because you've changed.”

Thankfully, Stiles was saved from having to answer when his phone rang. He gratefully snatched it up from the arm of his chair, an apology already on the tip of his tongue when he answered, “Hey Isaac. Look, I'm really sor-”

“It's already forgotten, Stiles.” Isaac chuckled in his ear. “But listen, Scott wanted me to see if you were busy?”

Stiles looked around the living room, Erica and Boyd having drawn his father into a conversation Stiles wanted absolutely no part of. “No, man, I'm free. What's up?”

“Looks like there's a faerie ring out by Winslow Lake, causing all kinds of ridiculousness. Nobody's gotten hurt yet but Parrish got a call about half an hour ago, something about weird lights near the highway. Scott wants to check it out.”

Stiles was already out of his chair, tossing a short “See you later.” over his shoulder on his way out the door. “I'll be there in fifteen.” he told Isaac, hanging up and swinging into the Jeep.

 

*

 

Scott, Isaac, and Parrish were already waiting when Stiles pulled up, parking behind Parrish's cruiser along the side of the road.

“Faeries, huh?” he called cheerily, walking around the cars to meet them. 

Scott grinned. “Apparently.”

“We talking Tinkerbell or...?” Stiles asked, eyes scanning the woods and nose lifted to scent the air.

Parrish nodded, gesturing over his shoulder at the line of trees. “The caller said there was an odd light formation moving through the forest at a good clip. By the time I got here, all I caught was the tail end of what looked like a group of faeries celebrating the moon.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “So, I called Scott.”

“What's the plan?” Stiles queried, excitement thrumming through him at the idea of getting a chance to shift so close to the full moon without worrying whether or not he'd be able to shift back. 

Okay, maybe finding out Derek was his anchor wasn't all bad.

Scott grimaced slightly, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. “We're just waiting for-”

“Me.” 

“Seriously?” Stiles whisper-shouted at Scott in favor of avoiding looking at Derek who was stepping out of the woods like the Creepy McCreeperson that he was. “Of all the people you could have called?”

“My senses are stronger.” Derek shrugged, raising a brow as though challenging Stiles to argue. “The full shift puts my wolf more in control, lets my instincts take over. I can see, hear, and smell things that not even an Alpha can.”

“Fabulous.” Stiles rolled his eyes, trying for cool and collected while his wolf bounced around the inside of his head, yipping excitedly and itching to stretch his paws in front of Derek. Stiles tried not to be disappointed that he wouldn't be able to shift, choosing to focus on the task at hand instead. “Plan?” he repeated, a slight sharpness tinting the word.

Scott huffed an amused laugh but put Stiles out of his misery. “Spread out, find the circle. I want to try to keep this as civil as possible and just ask them to try to be more discreet, so no attacking unless they make a move first. Stiles?”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it.” he huffed, not meeting the confused look Derek shot him.

“Alright, let's go.” Scott motioned for them to set off into the trees, and Stiles was grateful for the opportunity to put distance between he and Derek.

It was already late and the woods were almost one big shadow, the moon's light blocked by the canopy of trees, giving Stiles no choice but to let his eyes shift. He picked his way through the dense underbrush, paying careful attention to the sounds around him so he could switch them back if Derek got close. 

Twenty minutes later, Stiles was just beginning to wonder how far into the forest they'd have to venture in order to locate the faerie ring when a glowing yellow light caught his eye and the sounds of celebration drifted toward him. From where he was he couldn't make out anything beyond the dome of glittering light and the tinkling sound of flute music, but how many luminescent parties could there realistically be in the middle of the forest?

Stiles pulled out his phone to text Scott, leaving him distracted and allowing a tiny ball of fury to collide with his sternum, knocking the breath from his lungs and sending him flying back onto his ass with an “Oomph”. He rolled with the movement, back on his feet with a snarl, the little winged bastard flapping at him angrily. The faerie looked mad, his teeny eyebrows drawn together in outrage and his little fists clenched at his sides.

“Listen, dude.” Stiles tried, pulling the wolf back and lifting his hands in a placating gesture. He fixed the faerie- A small man all of maybe six inches tall, who was sporting an impressive set of shimmering, gauzy copper wings and a halo of messy brown curls -with a hard glare and rubbed at his chest with the heel of his hand. “I'm not here to hurt you or your people, okay? My Alpha just wants to talk.”

The faerie narrowed his slightly-too-big-for-his-face emerald eyes, fluttering in place several feet off the ground. “An Alpha werewolf does not simply talk to the Fae.” he said, his voice clear and high, and in no way indicative of his size. 

Stiles wasn't sure if that was supposed to be a threat or a simple statement but he felt his hackles rise, either way. “Yeah, well, he's not your typical Alpha.” Stiles tried to explain, only to be cut off by a growl that vibrated in his chest like a mini earthquake and had his hair standing on end. 

Derek slunk out of the darkness at Stiles' right side, eyes burning blue as he padded forward on massive paws. Stiles' heart thudded heavily at the sight of Derek in his wolf form, his oil dark fur glistening even in the barely there moonlight that managed to filter through the canopy and actually reach the forest floor. He'd forgotten how beautiful Derek was like this.

“Derek, relax.” Stiles ordered softly, one eye on the faerie who watched Derek with nervous aggression. “We're good here, right?” he asked.

Derek's growl lost some of its edge when he managed to position himself between Stiles and the faerie. It kept up, a rolling sound of warning even as he settled on his haunches in what Stiles guessed was an attempt to seem less threatening.

“He is yours?” the faerie asked, hovering a little closer while casting a curious look between them, his anger seemingly forgotten when faced with an actual wolf. 

“No?” Stiles ventured, annoyed that it came out as a question rather than the statement he'd intended.

Derek's growl rose a decibel but he stayed put, practically sitting on Stiles' feet to keep him rooted in place. Without thinking, Stiles reached down to stroke a hand over Derek's neck, his fingers carding through the thick, silken fur there. He was startled by not only the hum of magic he felt at the contact, but also the way Derek's growl shifted into a pleased rumble.

The faerie lifted his feet up under him, hovering in the air as though he were a toddler waiting to be read a story. “Are you quite sure about that?” he asked, his voice teasing and amused as he quirked a brow.

“They're both mine.” Scott's voice cut through the night. “And your Court is in my territory.” he said evenly, his voice powerful even without the growl behind it.

The faerie turned to watch as Scott emerged from behind him, flanked on either side by Isaac and Parrish, their eyes Gold, Red and Burnt Orange flames in the darkness. “Alpha McCall, I presume.” the faerie gave a deferential nod.

Scott gave a short dip of his chin in acknowledgment, his eyes taking on a flicker of wariness at being addressed by name. “And you are?” he asked, gesturing with his head at Derek and Stiles, a signal that he wanted them to align themselves with their pack.

Stiles kept his eyes on the faerie as he shuffled sideways, almost tripping over Derek in the process since the wolf had apparently deemed it necessary to continue acting as a buffer. Derek pressed against Stiles' legs and half-herded him toward the others, a soft chuff of irritation escaping him when Stiles tried to resist. The faerie chuckled heartily as he watched them and Stiles had to bite his lips to stop them from rolling up in another snarl.

“Humans nor werewolves can pronounce my given name.” the faerie told Scott, returning his attention to the Alpha. “You may call me Prince, however, should it make you more comfortable.”

Stiles snorted, earning himself a sharp nip to his hand from Derek's teeth. He shot him a dirty look but quieted down just the same. 

Scott took a few steps forward, addressing the Prince with as much respect as he could infuse into his voice while faced with a tiny, fluttering, naked man in the middle of the darkened woods. “My pack and I don't want to fight. Your Court is welcome to keep using our forest for your celebration, as long as you adhere to a few of our rules.”

The Prince looked Scott over as though weighing his worthiness, his bright eyes seeming to glow faintly as he appraised. Apparently finding whatever he was looking for, he nodded his assent. “Very well, Alpha McCall. What rules have you?”

 

*

 

Derek had barely finished buttoning his jeans when Stiles stalked up behind him, radiating anger as he asked, “What the fuck do you think you're doing?”

Having seen this particular conversation coming from a thousand miles away, Derek merely sighed and pulled on his shirt, turning to face Stiles with a bored look. “Could you be a little more specific?” he asked, eyebrows as sarcastic as Stiles had ever seen them.

Stiles scowled, his eyes shining with anger, his body practically vibrating with it. If Derek didn't know better he'd think Stiles was fighting back a shift, the way his muscles bunched and strained beneath his skin. 

“Do you really think that protecting me from a six inch tall guy with wings is going to get you back in my good graces?” Stiles bit out as the others stepped out of the woods, watching them as though waiting for the moment one of them would have to step in and break up a fight. “I did just fine while you were gone, Derek!” Isaac cleared his throat deliberately but Stiles just held up a hand to silence him and kept going. “I don't need your self-sacrificing crap, got it? I am perfectly capable of protecting myself.”

“I know that.” Derek informed him, shrugging into his leather jacket. “But until you spontaneously sprout claws, you're still better off with a wolf on your side.” He didn't say that he'd still try to protect Stiles, even then, but the thought definitely existed inside his own head.

This time it was Scott who cleared his throat roughly, adopting a look of pure innocence when Derek shot him a curious look. Stiles gave a frustrated roll of his neck, grinding his teeth and flexing his fingers in frustration. 

“On my side, and between me and the threat are entirely different things.” he gritted. “I don't need you to save me, Derek.”

“Since when?” Derek asked, voice softer than he intended it to be. Saving each other is what they did, what they'd always done. When had that changed without him noticing?

Stiles' eyes squeezed shut, his chest heaving with labored breaths that sounded painful as they rushed through his lungs. When he opened his eyes again there was something lurking in their depths that made Derek's wolf whine and his ears droop.

“Since you weren't here the last time I needed saving.” Stiles snapped, the force of his words knocking Derek back a step and forcing his wolf into a cower.

“Stiles.” Scott called softly, a gentle reprimand in his tone.

Shoving hard past Derek on his way to the Jeep, Stiles ignored Derek's stunned expression, ignored the way his heart hurt to see the crushed look in Derek's eyes. He was halfway inside his car when he stopped, standing with his feet on the lip of the Jeep's floor so he could look at Derek over the roof. 

“Don't worry, Derek.” he assured darkly. “Scott was there to pick up your slack.”


	5. Fate, Thy Name Is Lydia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I know that this chapter is a little on the short side.
> 
> But!
> 
> The next chapter will _hopefully_ more than make up for that.

Stiles barely made it outside to the parking lot after school the next day when Lydia cornered him and ordered him to accompany her to an early dinner. Stiles knew it was a ploy for her to find out what happened the night before, no doubt having heard part of the story from one of the others, but he dutifully followed her to their usual diner anyway, sliding into the booth across from her and waiting for the inquisition.

He hadn't had to wait long. As soon as they sat down and ordered their drinks Lydia fixed him with an anticipatory stare and the story had just fallen right out of his mouth, landing between them on the table to glare up at Stiles, making him squirm. Lydia's own disappointed look hit Stiles where it hurt, had his intense desire to go back in time, take back the words he'd tossed out with the sole intention of causing Derek pain, increasing tenfold.

Even Stiles, as upset with Derek as he was, didn't actually blame him for what happened, not really. It was more the fact that Derek was unreachable afterward, MIA and incommunicado, when Stiles needed him the most that left him with the bitter taste of betrayal on his tongue. The fact that Derek wasn't there at all, before, during or after, was just the knife twisting in the wound, making blood gush out every time Stiles thought he'd finally begun to heal.

"So, basically what you're telling me here is that you're not only a giant coward, but you are also a massive asshole?" Lydia lifted one judgmental but impeccably shaped eyebrow, stabbing viciously at the perfectly innocent salad on her plate.

"That about sums it up, yes." Stiles nodded, lips pressed flat. When Lydia continued to pin him with her dark look Stiles sighed. "I know, okay? I know. I'm a dick, I get it."

"How long do you think you're going to be able to hide the fact that you're a werewolf?" she asked before popping a cherry tomato into her mouth, watching him expectantly while she chewed.

Stiles heaved a heavy sigh and poked at his untouched milkshake with his straw, unable to muster up the energy to be grateful for her letting him off without a full-blown lecture. "Not nearly as long as I'd like." he admitted sullenly.

"Namely forever?" Lydia fluttered innocent lashes but Stiles knew better.

He ignored her, running fingers through hair that stuck up in every direction from the constant push of his hands through it. "I just need long enough to figure out how to deal with this whole anchor thing." he grumbled.

Stiles wasn't dumb. He knew that his wolfiness wouldn't go unnoticed for long, even with the rope charm tied around his ankle. If he were being honest, he had to admit he was surprised he'd managed to keep it hidden this long. Twenty four hours seemed like a lifetime, though, and Stiles found himself thanking his lucky stars for every second he got to go without someone spilling the beans. Eventually Derek was going to have to learn the truth, and Stiles could only hope he would have enough time between now and then to convincingly lie his ass off about his anchor.

"You do know that someone is going to let it slip, right?" Lydia frowned thoughtfully. "Probably soon, too, because that's just the way these things work. It's practically a miracle no one has said anything yet, to be honest."

"I'm aware. I just... I don't want him to find out that he was right. I know how dumb that sounds, okay?" he defended halfheartedly when she gave him a look. "He's always been so fucking sure that I was going to get myself killed someday, you know? Forgive me for not being eager to prove him right."

"You're right." Lydia nodded primly. "That is dumb. Almost as dumb as you not wanting him to know because you're too afraid to tell him that he's your anchor."

Stiles slid his glass away, his stomach twisting up in knots. He crossed his arms on the table between them then propped his chin on top, looking up at Lydia through his lashes. "Why did it have to be him? Why couldn't my anchor have been normal, like everyone else's?"

Lydia gave him a bored look. "Yours is just like everyone else's." she informed him, a clear admonishment. "You're just too stubborn to admit it. It's actually kind of sad, really, the way you keep trying to justify hiding all of this from him."

"Can we not do this right now, Lydia?" Stiles begged, burying his face in the crook of his arm. "I told _you_! Isn't that enough?"

"Absolutely." Stiles straightened up at that, a hopeful feeling bubbling up inside him. Lydia, however, was a cruel, dream crushing woman. "If I were a tall, dark, and stubbled werewolf whom you want to climb like a tree and then cuddle like the bunnies you think no one knows you frolic through the forest with." she finished with a sweet smile.

"First of all, we do not frolic. The bunnies and I enjoy an equally beneficial relationship, which just happens to include occasional napping." Stiles corrected indignantly, eyes narrowed. "Stop judging us, Lydia." He ignored her burst of laughter, lowering his voice to what would probably be a threatening tone if he were trying to intimidate anyone other than Lydia Martin, and said, "Second, if you think that I won't dye your hair while you sleep if you ever repeat that sentence outside of the booth in which we currently reside, you are sorely mistaken."

Lydia laughed again at that, eyes twinkling with humor. "Sweetie," she said, leaning forward to curl a tiny hand around his forearm, "you know that I love you, but I will tear your lungs out through your nose if you ever so much as look at me with a bottle of hair dye in your hand."

Stiles grinned. "You always say the sweetest things to me, Lydia."

Half an hour later, as they walked from the diner to their cars, arms entwined, Lydia asked, "Would it really be so bad?"

"Telling Derek that I have feelings for him, or telling Derek that I'm a werewolf and he's my anchor?" Stiles questioned tiredly, head down, eyes fixed firmly on the ground.

"All of it." She shrugged as they reached her car and Stiles opened the door for her. "He cares about you, Stiles. Even when you're acting like a complete douchebag."

"Really?" Stiles chuckled darkly, meeting her eyes with a bland expression. "Because he sure seems to have an odd way of showing it. What with the constant running for the hills and everything."

Rolling her eyes, Lydia slid in behind the steering wheel of her car. "You're both idiots."

Stiles' mouth turned down deeply at the corners. "I've been hearing that a lot lately." he observed, wondering whether or not that should bother him. When Lydia didn't respond, just kept watching him as though expecting him to agree with her he added, "I get that the pack thinks they're helping, dropping hints and being pushy, but... Why can't any of you understand that I'm just not ready?"

"Oh, honey." Lydia reached out to lay her hand over his where it still rested on her door. "No one is ever ready to take that kind of risk. Laying it all on the line, giving someone else the power to destroy you? That's always going to be terrifying. But, what about what could come after? Are you willing to spend the rest of your life wondering what you could have had if you hadn't been too afraid to ask for it?"

Stiles swallowed thickly, feeling like Lydia had just reached down into his soul and yanked, pulling every single "What if?" to the surface. She smiled tenderly at him for a beat, a reassuring smile that almost made him wonder if she knew something he didn't.

"You're not a coward, Stiles. Stop acting like one." she told him, letting her hand slip away from his so that she could grab the handle and pull her door closed, turning the key in the ignition and driving away before he could formulate a response.

Stiles stared after her, frowning with his whole face as he ran her words over and over in his head. He'd never thought of himself as a coward. In fact, just the opposite. Stiles was normally the first one to rush into a situation, diving in head first without a second thought for his own safety or the long term consequences. But, maybe Lydia had a point. Maybe he was a coward, choosing to hide who he was from someone he'd always been able to trust, just because he was afraid of the fallout.

Stiles was climbing into the driver's seat with a heavy heart, ready to head home and drown his feelings in a Marvel marathon, when his phone chirped with a message. Scott's name caught his eye so he pulled up the text, cringing as he read:

_-Pack meeting at Derek's. Now._

Stiles groaned and slammed his head back against the headrest. "I must have killed a leprechaun at some point and this is his ghost straight up screwing with me." he grumbled moodily as he started the Jeep and reluctantly steered it back toward town, toward Derek's.

 

*

 

Derek stood by the massive window in his loft, staring down at the parking lot. He wasn't waiting for Stiles to pull up, he was keeping an eye out for Lydia. His neighborhood could be dangerous... In full daylight... With a whole pack of werewolves a few stories up.

… Whatever, he wasn't waiting for Stiles.

Stiles hadn't returned any of Derek's texts, wouldn't answer any of his calls, and Derek was sliding past concerned, straight into flat out annoyed. Not knowing what was really going on with Stiles was driving him crazy, making his wolf antsy and his skin feel too small for his frame. Something was wrong, something bigger than just Stiles being pissed off at him for leaving. There were bigger factors at play and Derek was beyond frustrated that he couldn't seem to get his mind to figure out what. Every time he tried it was like he came up against a wall, a roadblock in his brain that wouldn't budge, wouldn't let him properly analyze what little information he had.

The pack was of absolutely no help, either. All of them had been mum on the subject, save for Erica who would only cryptically say, "I thought the shift would be obvious." with a shrug. Asking Scott felt like cheating, like going behind Stiles' back. Even if Stiles' words from the previous night haunted him, made his stomach roil and burn, had him wondering what could have happened in his absence that was bad enough that Scott had to step in to save Stiles, Derek still couldn't make himself ask Scott for more information than Stiles was willing to give.

Not that Scott would tell Derek anything, regardless. Those two were like two sides of a coin, so close that nothing in the known universe could pry them apart. Scott would never betray Stiles' confidence like that, not even to Derek.

He could ask Malia but that felt wrong, too. He couldn't bring himself to put her in that situation, having to choose between loyalty to her boyfriend and loyalty to her family.

Running low on options, Derek decided that the only thing left to do was corner Stiles and ask him outright. The pack meeting gave him the perfect opportunity, assuming Stiles actually showed up and wasn't willing to let his avoidance of Derek interfere with his pack duties.

"Lydia's here." Derek called over his shoulder, watching her pull into the lot and step out of her car.

Most of the pack was already there, having been closer than Lydia and Stiles when the text went out. Allison, Isaac, and Liam had arrived with Scott. Boyd, Erica, Kira and Malia had been a few minutes behind, almost immediately followed by Chris, Parrish, Jackson and Danny. The pack was sprawled loosely around the loft, draped over furniture and settled on cushions wherever they pleased.

"Good, we need to get started." Scott, slouched low on the couch between Isaac and Allison, pushed himself upright and walked over to Derek, peering out to watch Lydia cross the lot. "Huh. I thought Stiles would be with her."

Derek tried not to look interested but seemingly failed.

"They were together the last I knew." Scott shrugged, turning back to the rest of the pack just as the elevator kicked into gear and headed up with Lydia inside.

By the time Lydia made it into the loft, Derek was trying to distract himself by listening to Parrish explain something about a case the Sheriff was working on. He wasn't paying particular attention but was still startled when Lydia headed straight for the kitchen, catching his eye along the way and motioning him to follow.

"Look," she started the moment Derek came in behind her, spinning on her heel to face him, "I know that you have a severe allergy to apologizing, especially when it comes to Stiles, but you need to fix this."

Derek, taken aback by the confrontational redhead radiating concern and aggravation at him, stilled halfway to hopping up on a stool at the stainless steel island. Regrouping and settling on the seat, he quirked a questioning brow at her. "I'm sure that you know I tried that already. He basically told me to get lost, Lydia. What else would you like me to do?"

"Tell him." she said simply, her expression challenging him to put up a fight.

Derek swallowed thickly, ignoring the way his skin tingled with nerves. "I don't know what-"

"Bullshit." Lydia glared daggers at him, crossing her arms over her breasts. "You know exactly what I'm talking about. This has gotten way out of hand, Derek. You two are supposed to fight, but not like this. It's unnatural, you guys not even talking to each other unless it's to hurl insults. So, tell. Him. And, soon."

"Wait." Derek's hand shot out without his permission, landing on her arm as she passed him to halt her leaving. "What about Malia?"

"What about her?" Lydia questioned, brows knotted together in question. "They've been broken up for weeks. Malia's already moved on, why shouldn't Stiles?"

"I didn't." Derek paused, took a breath to steady his rapidly thudding heart. "I didn't know that was over. He didn't... He never said."

"Of course he didn't." Lydia rolled her eyes so hard it looked painful.

Derek hesitated, unsure if asking Lydia crossed one of the lines he'd drawn for himself. "He smells... Is there someone else?" he settled on, hoping it was both vague enough that he hadn't actually asked anything specific and clear enough that Lydia got the gist of what he was trying not to ask.

Confusion darkened her eyes for a beat before they cleared and softened, a delicate, knowing smirk curling her lips. "The wolf, right?"

Derek nodded jerkily, ignoring the flare of jealousy in his belly at the confirmation of another wolf in Stiles' life.

"That part, I'll let him explain." She pinched Derek's cheek just this side of painfully, giving him a look that told him she thought he was an idiot but still loved him anyway. "Stiles has been dealing with a lot the last few weeks, Derek, has been through even more. After everything, he deserves to be happy, to know that there's someone who cares about him the way he deserves. It was never going to be me, and even though it was almost Malia, I think we both know who it's supposed to be."

Derek snorted. "Are you trying to pin us with fate, Lydia?" he queried, grinning despite the nervous swoop in his belly.

"Call it whatever you want." She returned his grin, confident that she had him right where Stiles needed him. "Fate, Kismet, Karma, Destiny... It doesn't matter what you call it. In the long run, the only thing that matters is that you both get your shit together and let it happen."

"Come on, guys! Stiles just pulled up." Isaac called from the living room, breaking the heavy silence that followed Lydia's proclamation.

Lydia offered Derek one last look before she went out to join the others, leaving him to stew in his own tangled thoughts. Taking a deep breath in an effort to stop his hands from shaking, Derek followed a minute later.


	6. The Giant Pink Werewolf In The Room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double-sized chapter here, my lovelies! I couldn't bring myself to split this in half so you just get all of it.
> 
> None of you have complaints about that, right? :)

Stiles let himself into the loft to find the rest of the pack was already gathered. It was a strategic move on his part, being the last to arrive in the hopes that the combined scent of the pack would help mask his wolf a little more thoroughly.

It wasn't that Stiles didn't trust Lydia's capabilities with the small amount of magic she'd picked up from Deaton, because he did. If he hadn't there was no way he would have asked her to make him the masking charm in the first place rather than asking Deaton directly. But, after the close call the night before, Stiles felt infinitely more comfortable with the added buffer of the pack between his scent and Derek's nose.

"Sorry, had to stop for gas." he tossed out flippantly, proud of himself for having the foresight to actually stop and fill his tank so the excuse would read as the truth. He dropped onto the couch beside Isaac, bumping their shoulders together in silent greeting. "So, what did I miss?" he asked, looking around the room while determinedly ignoring Derek entirely where he was perched on the arm of Liam's chair.

"Nothing yet." Scott pushed to his feet, standing off to one side so he could see the faces of every member of his pack. With a clench of his crooked jaw and stormy set to his brows, Scott informed them, "We might have a hunter problem."

"What do you mean 'might'?" Parrish questioned, shifting forward to rest his elbows on his thighs.

Scott glanced at Chris and nodded, giving him the go ahead to answer, "The Kearney's are an Irish hunting clan that have had an alliance with our family for as far back as either side can remember. Like our family used to, the Kearney's follow the code, the original code, to the letter of the thing. Unlike the Argents, they're a patriarchal family and the head of their clan is recently deceased."

"Dissension in the ranks?" Derek guessed, brows lifted.

Chris nodded the affirmative. "The oldest grandson, Carrick, is making a play for his grandfather's position. Unfortunately, his uncle Lochlann, the rightful successor, isn't willing to surrender the title."

"What does this have to do with us?" Liam asked, looking between Derek, Scott, and Chris warily.

It was Stiles who responded, nailing the point down correctly in one go. "Carrick thinks that taking out the McCall pack, a pack led by a True Alpha and three of whose number are the last remaining Hales, discounting Peter, is the quickest way up the ladder."

"It's the theory we're running on, yes." Allison spoke up from the other side of Isaac.

"Based on what?" Parrish asked, Deputy persona settling firmly in place.

"Quinn Kearney, the grandfather, might have accepted my father and I being part of a pack but Carrick isn't nearly as open minded." Allison explained, pulling her knees up to her chest. "If he, and those who follow him, can manage it, taking out our pack would allow Carrick to overthrow his uncle and take control of not only his own family, but what's left of the Argent's as well. If he can prove that his regime is capable of wiping us out, it won't be hard to convince the others to fall in line. After all, the McCall pack is big game. Especially for hunters who don't follow any variation of the code."

"Carrick doesn't?" Erica questioned, leaning forward, shifting closer to where Boyd was sitting at her feet.

Chris made a gruff sound in the back of his throat. "Carrick's code consists of 'Kill them before they kill us'. His grandfather was the last thing keeping him in line. With Quinn gone..."

"Carrick has free reign to lose his fucking mind." Jackson supplied sardonically.

Stiles, too restless to sit still any longer, got up to pace behind the back of the couch, head down, hand rubbing at his jaw as he considered the new information. "So, your dinner with the other hunters?" he asked without looking up.

"Lochlann and his second in command, Riley." Scott said, eyes tracking Stiles' movements the same way Derek's were, though their weight couldn't possibly have felt more different. "They wanted to size us up, figure out if the stories are true, if we can be trusted. I guess we passed the test because Lochlann called another meeting this afternoon."

"Hence the impromptu pack meeting." Danny supplied, earning a nod of confirmation from Scott.

"So, they think an attack is probable." Lydia frowned, not bothering to make it a question.

"That's what we gathered, yeah." Isaac said, reaching across the small distance between him and Allison, curling his hand around her thigh.

"Do we need to be worried?" Malia asked, shrugging when most of the pack gave her the side-eye. "What? I mean, is this Carrick guy an actual threat? Maybe he's all talk."

"If Lochlann thought him enough of a threat to warn us, I think we'd be smart to err on the side of caution." Stiles told her, his feet carrying him back and forth without thought.

"Okay, so what's the plan then?" Kira was the next to ask, rubbing a gentle hand up and down one of Malia's legs where they were thrown over her lap. "Wait and see? Or do we have an actual offensive tactic?"

"If we make the first move we risk bringing down the entire Kearney clan on Beacon Hills." Scott said in a way that told Stiles he was thinking out loud, working through his thoughts as he went. "If we don't want to insight a war we don't have much choice in the matter."

Stiles disagreed. "We could launch a recon mission." he suggested, garnering a mix of supportive nods and hesitant stares from the pack. Scott and Derek glared particularly hard at him but Stiles wasn't deterred. "Come on, what do we really know about these guys? How can we hope to defend against an all out assault if we have no idea what we're dealing with?"

"I hate to say it," Parrish shrugged when Derek turned his dark look on him. "but Stiles is right. Gathering intel is our best option at this point."

"See?" Stiles preened, nodding appreciatively at the Deputy. "Even Parrish, pragmatist to end all pragmatists, agrees. Do we know where Carrick and his band of merry men are?"

"Yes." Allison answered, ignoring the look Scott sent her way. "They've taken over an old cluster of cabins just inside our southern border."

"Perfect." Stiles waved his arm in a wide arc as if to say "Voila!". "So, we go on a scouting trip. Get as close as we can and try to get a feel for what they bring to the table. No engaging, no offensive action." he added at Scott's obvious move to interrupt with an objection. "In and out, Scott. Unless anyone has a better plan?"

No one else spoke up and Scott rolled his bottom lip between his teeth, considering. Stiles waited as patiently as he was capable, which was to say not at all, knowing that Scott would agree eventually. He always did.

"Am I the only who is going to point out the epic fail that was Stiles' last plan?" Jackson asked, one eyebrow reaching for his hairline.

Tension rippled through the pack, gazes bouncing between Scott and Stiles apprehensively. Stiles went rigid, gaze desperately searching out Lydia's. Scott was scowling as much as his face could manage and Derek narrowed his eyes hard at the way Stiles' heartbeat had taken off in a nervous lurch.

"I don't think that's relevant." Lydia stepped in, her tone pacifying even as she pinched Jackson surreptitiously to shut him up, much to Stiles' relief. "This situation is nothing like that. Jordan thinks recon is a good idea, too."

Stiles could see the war raging behind Scott's eyes, could smell the fresh flash of pain and loss that always clouded around him whenever someone brought up the Catoblepas incident, the moment that changed everything. Derek narrowed his eyes at Scott as Stiles glanced away, and Stiles had to wonder what Derek thought of the obvious shift in the room's overall atmosphere.

Whatever he picked up, he seemed to ignore it in favor of stipulating,"If we're going to do this, we're only sending people with actual, offensive powers. No humans except the hunters." He looked to Scott for his agreement, arms folded over his chest in determination. "Stiles, Lydia, and Danny aren't going anywhere near this."

As Scott nodded his assent, Stiles felt panic starting to swell in his chest, his lungs clenching tight around breaths he tried to keep even. The only thought racing through his mind, the thought he tried to convey to Scott using nothing but strained facial expressions, was _Please, please, please don't correct him_.

Scott frowned, trying to understand. "Stiles isn't-"

Cutting Scott off with a flail and a sputter, Stiles rushed to say, "Going anywhere near this. Absolutely not. Sounds good to me."

Derek's glower intensified, suspicion heavy in the air around him. Stiles willingly forgoing a mission was rare. So rare that it had never happened in the history of Derek knowing him.

Scott nodded again, still oblivious to Stiles' situation but appeased by his willingness to stay out of harm's way. "We don't need to send the whole pack." he declared, looking around the pack as he doled out orders. "Parrish, Boyd and Erica, you guys will take the front line with Chris and I. Allison, Isaac, Jackson, and Malia will hang back far enough to be out of range but close enough to back us up if we need it. The rest of you go home, but keep your phones on."

"Wait, you're going now?" Liam asked, annoyed that he wasn't on either string but used to being kept out of missions unless his involvement was absolutely unavoidable.

Scott had an overprotective streak a country mile wide, a trait Liam assumed he'd learned from Derek if the way Derek treated Stiles was anything to go by. Maybe they thought he hadn't noticed that way Derek, fully human and nearly as defenseless, had taken the brunt of his attack in the back of the prison van on the way to Mexico. But, Liam had noticed (neither of them were as subtle as they thought they were), and he'd simply filed that info away as absolutely none of his business.

"Shouldn't you come up with a solid plan of action before you go rushing in blind?" Liam asked apprehensively.

"Jesus Scott, what have you been teaching this kid?" Stiles balked mockingly. "Besides, we have a plan." he threw out, grateful for something to focus on that wasn't his own deception. "Wait for cover of darkness, get close, get info, do not get caught. Piece of cake."

"Assuming we don't get caught." Parrish sighed. Always the pessimist, that one.

"We won't." Scott said confidently as the pack rose, ready for action now that they had their orders. He turned his full attention to Stiles. "I don't want to see you anywhere near the woods." he ordered, no room for argument. "Go home, stay here, wander around the mall until it closes. I don't care what you do, Stiles, but I swear to God if I smell you in the woods tonight I will kill you myself."

"Duly noted, oh Mighty Alpha." Stiles grinned, bowing deeply just to be a shit.

Scott rolled his eyes affectionately and turned to Derek. "Keep an eye on him, will you?"

Stiles guffawed attractively, "Hey! I don't need a babysitter, Scott." he protested. "I've taken care of myself pretty well so far, haven't I?" He tried not to visibly flinch when Scott turned eyes just barely tinged with Red on him but wasn't entirely sure he succeeded. "Yeah, alright. Fair enough. But, I'm just going home, okay? I don't need an armed escort."

"I've got him." Derek said over him, ignoring his objections as though they'd never happened.

Stiles' mouth hung open, gaping like a fish out of water, as Scott nodded his approval and followed the rest of the pack slowly filtering out of the loft.

"You're not leaving are you?" Stiles practically flung himself at Lydia, eyes wide and begging as she trailed Jackson to the door. He was under no delusions that Derek was letting him out of his sight until Scott gave the all clear, meaning that his chances of leaving the loft with everyone else were slim to none. "Lydia." he said almost pleadingly.

She smiled that evilly sweet smile, eyeing him significantly. "I have a nail appointment to keep. Besides," her smile turned sharp, "you and Derek have a lot to catch up on. I suggest you take this golden opportunity to do that."

By the time Stiles recovered from the shock of his only ally apparently turning on him, the door to the loft was long closed and the silence hanging in the air was skirting the edges of oppressive. He turned slowly, and much to his surprise, found himself alone in Derek's living room. He knew full well that Derek hadn't gone far but thanked his lucky stars for the moment of opportunity.

"Where are we going?" Derek appeared out of nowhere as Stiles turned for the door. The smug jerk was leaning casually against the door, arms folded over his wide chest, eyes dancing with barely concealed amusement.

Cursing, Stiles retreated back into the living room, running a hand through his already tousled hair. He turned on Derek, heart missing a beat at the way Derek watched him like he was prey on the run rather than a fellow pack mate. "Do not, for one single moment, think that I don't know you're enjoying this." he sneered, clinging to his anger.

Derek arched a brow, smirking openly. "As long as we're on the same page."

"Are we ever?" Stiles asked waspishly, taking up his pacing behind the sofa just to put a barrier between them.

"Occasionally." Derek shrugged carelessly though his eyes tracked Stiles' every move. "We could be now, if you would just stop hiding whatever it is you're hiding from me."

Stiles swallowed tightly, the rope around his ankle suddenly a leaden weight against his ankle. "I'm not hiding anything."

"Lie." Derek noted easily.

Stiles cursed his betraying heartbeat, fingernails digging divots into his palms with the force of him clenching them. "Oh my God, fine!" he growled with a flail of limbs, putting every ounce of fury from the last three months into the glare he shot at Derek. "Maybe it's just none of your business, Derek. Why am I the only one in this pack not allowed to have secrets?"

"Because I don't care about anyone else's secrets." Derek shot back, temper flaring bright in his eyes. "Stiles, you reek of fear and deceit. Just tell me what's going on. Maybe I can help."

Stiles snorted bitterly. "Believe me when I tell you that you absolutely can not help."

"Is it the wolf?" Derek tried, pissed at himself for pushing but even more angry that Stiles wouldn't just talk to him. He'd honestly thought they were beyond that phase of their relationship. "You know that you can always come to me or Scott-"

"No, Derek, Jesus." Stiles sighed, touched by Derek's concern despite his best efforts to stay angry. "It's nothing like whatever your twisted mind is thinking, okay?"

"Then what is it?" Derek pressed, seizing the tiny bit of wavering in Stiles' ire. "It's driving me crazy, Stiles. I just... I need to know that you're alright."

"I'm fine." Stiles sat sullenly on the edge of Derek's coffee table, his head hanging limply down toward his chest. He was wearing down and he knew it, Lydia's words from earlier ricocheting around the inside of his skull.

_You're not a coward, Stiles. Stop acting like one._

"Listen." Stiles looked up as Derek sat down on the sofa, just a few inches away, so close that Stiles could feel the heat of his body. "I have to talk to you about something but I need you to promise me two things, first."

"Because starting a conversation with that always ends well." When Stiles' wide-eyed expression didn't so much as flicker Derek hesitated, eyeing him warily, but ultimately nodded his consent.

"One, you have to swear not to freak out." The crease between Derek's brows deepened but he waited for Stiles' second stipulation. "Two, you can ask whatever questions you want. But when I tell you to back off, you need to back the hell off."

"Fine." Derek agreed, his chest tightening with worry as the anxiety-ridden scent hanging around Stiles thickened and condensed.

Stiles looked down at his hands, wringing his fingers together in an attempt to distract himself from the nausea rolling through him. "Something happened while you were gone." he said, glancing up in time to see Derek's eyebrows draw together, a weird mix of concern and confusion pulling them up in the middle. Stiles looked down at his hands again, steeling himself with a deep breath. Letting the Beta Gold bleed into his eyes as he lifted them, he forced himself to say, "I got the bite."

Derek went eerily still, his shoulders going rigid as his heart gave a heavy thud and his stomach sank down toward his feet. "No you... You were supposed to stay human."

"It wasn't a choice, Derek." Stiles defended weakly, scraping his teeth across his bottom lip. "There was a thing that happened and, as it turns out, sarcasm as a defense is severely lacking when horns are involved."

Derek blanched. "Horns?" he asked, the question seeming to leave his lips without his consent, sounding strangled and tight.

"Long story." Stiles waved it away, a humorless smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth.

Blinking seemed to be the only thing Derek was capable of for a moment, but Stiles heard his pulse skip and skitter, could smell the disappointment that cut into him like Kira's blade slicing through air. Stiles felt sick, his stomach clenching and rolling around nothing. He'd hoped Derek would accept him as a wolf, the way the rest of the pack had, instead of whatever weird mix of disappointed and mournful he had going on.

"I know that I'm not the best candidate for lycanthropy-" Stiles started haltingly, only to have Derek regain the use of his voice.

Of course the second question out of his mouth would be the one question Stiles dreaded having to answer, feared where it would lead. "Can you control it?"

Realizing that his eyes were still shifted, Stiles let them flicker out and dropped his gaze away from Derek's. "You bet your ass I can control it." he deflected, his heart throbbing in his neck. "I'm the best wolf ever, dude. Do you think Scott would just let me wander around if he thought I was dangerous?"

"So... That's what you meant? About Scott picking up my slack?" Derek asked, something jagged and tormented in his tone. "He turned you."

Stiles kept his eyes down, unable to formulate a response that didn't make guilt rise up to burn his throat like bile.

"I thought you didn't want to be a wolf. You turned Peter down." Derek said, voice heavy. He still hadn't moved a muscle, holding himself stiffly as though waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Well yeah, but Peter is fucking psychotic." Stiles scoffed. "Like I said, it wasn't a choice that I got to make. Scott did what he thought was right in an impossible situation. I never wanted to be a werewolf, sure, but I also didn't want to be dead. Werewolf is definitely the lesser of two evils."

Derek finally moved, sinking back into the couch cushions and scrubbing a hand over his face. "The wolf I smelled..."

Stiles sighed, shoulders sagging. He stood up from his seat on the coffee table just to drop down beside Derek, deciding that if the jig was up he might as well let himself enjoy the proximity. He reached down, extending the claw of his pointer finger, and cut through the rope around his ankle with a snick. As soon as the charm was broken, Derek inhaled deeply beside him. Stiles thought he saw Derek's eyes flash electric blue but they were their normal blend of green and reddish-brown before he could tell for sure.

"I'm an idiot." Derek laughed humorlessly as the scent slammed into him.

"Obviously." Stiles held the rope out for Derek to examine. "It's not entirely your fault this time, though. I asked Lydia to make that for me. It acts kind of like a signal scrambler, creates a blockage between my scent and your senses so that you can smell the wolf but you can't connect it with my human scent. She's gotten pretty good with the magic stuff, you know. She's a total badass."

"Is asking why you wanted to mask your scent part of the 'back the hell off' clause?" Derek asked, rolling the charm between his fingers and glancing at Stiles from his periphery.

"Yeah, it is." Stiles admitted, leaning away when he realized exactly how close they were sitting. "I don't want to talk about it. At least... Not right now. But, I would be glad tell you all about how I became the glorious werewolf you see before you."

Derek laughed again, this time with a trace of actual amusement. "Alright, I'm listening."

Stiles repositioned himself on the couch, turning to face Derek while tucking his feet under his ass, and began, "So, I had this totally awesome plan, right?"

 

*

 

Waiting for word from the pack was normally torturous. Stiles was surprised by how much having someone to listen while he babbled made the wait easier. He hadn't intended to fill Derek in on the three months he'd missed, wanting to hold onto his anger a while longer, but he found the words flowing out of him like an open tap, smooth and gushing.

Something about being near Derek put him at ease, had the tightness in Stiles' skin loosening and soothed the wolf into snoring lazily, curled up adorably behind his sternum.

"Hold on." Derek cut Stiles off with a frown. "Your wolf didn't like her?"

"Nope." Stiles popped the P, sipping from the mug of coffee wrapped in his palms as he leaned more solidly against the arm of the couch and tucked his toes beneath Derek's thigh. "No idea why. Deaton said it was something about power dynamics or something, but I think it was just instinct or whatever. As soon as we broke things off he settled down. He still gets annoyed with her but I no longer feel the urge to rip her throat out when we're in each others space for too long, so that's a win in my book."

Derek hummed, but his face was pinched, his mouth set in a hard line.

"What?" Stiles asked, tilting his head inquisitively.

"Nothing." Derek brushed him off, shaking his head. "I'm just sorry I wasn't here to see all of it."

The twisted part of Stiles' heart clenched a bit tighter. "Sorry you missed all the fun of me turning, or sorry you didn't get to see me gored to death?" he joked, shooting for offhanded but falling just short of managing it.

"I'm just sorry." Derek looked away, his eyes finding the waxing moon beyond his giant window. "I should have been here for you, should have been here to help walk you through the transition like I was for the others."

"Yeah, well." Stiles shrugged, ignoring the way his stomach flipped at how eerily Derek nailed down Stiles' own thoughts. "I had the whole pack backing me up, you know? I think Scott forgot that I went through the change with him the first time, though. He was cute, spouting off werewolf facts like he was the Encyclopedia Lycan."

Derek huffed a thin laugh. "Sounds like Scott."

They fell into a silence that was almost comfortable, uncomplicated and easy, until Derek had to go and make it heavy.

"Stiles, I really am sorry for the way I left things. I wanted to say goodbye in person I just... Couldn't." he tried to explain, frustrated that he couldn't find the right words, wasn't able to string together a sentence capable of fixing things between them.

"You did what you had to do." Stiles shrugged, staring down into the beige milkiness of his coffee.

"You say that, but you still smell angry." Derek pointed out, his tone shot through with sulkiness.

Stiles sighed, scratching the line of his jaw. "Yeah, I'm still angry, Derek." he admitted, heat creeping into his words. "You left again, dude. We all needed a break, some time to get our shit together after the epic clusterfuck that was La Iglesia: The Sequel. But..."

"No one else abandoned the pack." Derek said, recalling the way Stiles had hurled the words at him like a punch.

"I just don't understand." Stiles grated, climbing off the couch to set his coffee down and put some distance between them. He was on the opposite side of the room, practically vibrating out of his skin, before he turned hard eyes on Derek. "It's not that you left, Derek, it's that you _keep_ leaving. How can you keep doing that to your pack? How can you just leave like none of us are important enough to stay for?"

"I didn't _just_ leave, Stiles." Derek snapped, his own anger rising up, bitter and burning in his throat as he thrust himself upright from his place on the sofa. "Leaving was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. But I had to! I was no use to any of you with my head the way it was. I was a mess, Stiles, you know I was."

"You could have been a mess _here_ , Derek!" Stiles shouted, throwing an arm out accusingly. "You could have stayed. Don't look at me like that, you could have. You chose to leave. You always do! The rest of the pack might be okay with it, might accept that you won't ever be the guy that sticks around when shit gets tough, but I don't. I refuse to be okay with watching you leave, Derek."

"So don't!" Derek yelled, losing his grip on his barely restrained temper. Why was it always Stiles that broke through his walls, tearing them down like the bulldozer he was until nothing was left but dust and rubble? Why was it this pain in the ass kid that always burrowed under his skin and drove him mad in all the best and worst ways possible? "No one asked you to be okay with it. But Jesus Christ, stop fucking harping on me for it! I apologized, Stiles. What more do you want from me?"

"I want you to stop acting like you don't have anyone here who cares about you!" Stiles surged into Derek's space, shoving hard at his chest. He could feel his pulse thudding wildly in his head but the floodgates were open now, letting every painful, angry thing he'd ever thought spill out and it felt too good to try closing them again. "Every time I think you've outgrown your 'I am an incredibly surly island' bullshit, you regress back into it. I'm sick to death of watching you talk yourself out of letting people in, of watching you run away from the people who actually do give a shit. I get that Cora is your sister and you love her, and you need to visit her every once in a while, need to run with her and talk about the family none of the rest of us ever got a chance to know. I get it, okay? But stop pretending that she is all you've got! Our pack loves you, too, you thick-headed, stubbornly obtuse jackass!"

"I never-"

"No!" Stiles shoved Derek back again when he tried to step closer, eyes flaring Gold though the rest of him stayed human. "You don't care about me? Fine. I can deal with that, Derek. I think you made that fact abundantly clear when you left with hardly a word, and again when you were nowhere to be found when I needed you the most. But I know that you care about this pack! So, pull your head out of your ass and start acting like it."

"I didn't say goodbye because I _couldn't_ , Stiles!" Derek snarled, grabbing Stiles by the biceps, dragging him in. He was taken by surprise by the sheer strength Stiles had now, struggling to get free, but Derek was still stronger and he refused to let go. "Do you understand that? I physically could not look you in the eye and leave. Do you have any idea how hard it is to willingly walk away from your anchor, from the only thing that keeps you human?"

Stiles stopped fighting Derek's hold the second his brain registered the word "anchor", his body going limp. His jaw dropped before he could catch it, his eyes going wide and startled as his heart lept into his throat and his wolf yipped excitedly. "What did you just say?" he choked, staring at Derek in shock

"You heard me, Stiles." Derek said, his voice much gentler than it had been the instant before. His eyes were softer too, no longer burning with rage but simmering with something else entirely. He leaned in close, his nose nearly brushing the upturned tip of Stiles' as one hand came up to cup the side of Stiles' neck. Derek and his wolf shared a hitched breath at the way Stiles' pulse thundered against their skin. "Don't make me say it again."

Stiles gulped hard around the swollen feeling behind his Adam's apple, his eyes searching Derek's as though seeking the lie. "I'm your anchor?" he asked, his crackling voice barely a whisper in the sudden stillness around them as both of Derek's hands curled around either side of Stiles' neck, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles just below the cut of his jaw.

"I was surprised, too." Derek murmured, so close Stiles could taste his breath dancing across his taste buds. "It doesn't make sense for someone so infuriatingly annoying to be the thing that's supposed to help keep me human, but it's you, Stiles. You got me through what happened in Mexico, you're the reason I was able to shift back after my wolf took over... You are what brought me back, what always brings me home, Stiles." he said, the words low and gentle. "Just you."

"I..." Stiles' breath caught in his chest when he tried to inhale, his senses flooded with the spine tingling scent of Derek, of pack and safety and a trust so implicit it made Stiles' lungs ache. His head felt fuzzy, a heaviness swirling around inside his skull where he could feel every throb of his heartbeat echo hauntingly. "You never said-"

Derek's chuckle was low, gravel rough and shiver inducing. "What was I supposed to say?" he asked softly, each word ghosting Stiles' lips as they left Derek's tongue. "Hmm? Would you have even believed me if I tried to tell you that you are the one thing, the one person in the entire world that bonds me to my humanity?"

Stiles' brain sort of felt like it was short circuiting. He couldn't seem to form a coherent thought, could only stare at Derek as if seeing him for the first time and hope to God his legs deemed fit to keep him upright.

"I understand if this doesn't change anything for you, Stiles." Derek said, the rumbling warmth of his voice stealing the last of Stiles' breath from his lungs. He shifted forward, closing the minuscule distance between them until they stood flush, thigh to thigh and belly to belly. He lowered his head, his lips just barely brushing the plush pink fullness of Stiles' mouth. Electricity zinged along Stiles' nerve endings and he was pretty sure his heart stopped beating all together as Derek whispered, "But can you blame me for wanting it to?"

Forget short circuiting.

Stiles' brain flat out melted into a puddle and gave up the fight when Derek's lips pressed firmly against his own. Heat exploded in the pit of Stiles' stomach, spiraling out along his limbs and rising to the surface of his skin in a dusty crimson flush. He didn't think, didn't even breathe, just gripped Derek by the hips and tried desperately to hold on as the world tilted out from under him.

Derek kissed him hungrily but with attention paid to every slide, every graze; A teasing nip at the curve of Stiles' bottom lip, a greedy suck to his Cupid's bow as fingers burned their prints into the skin at his nape. Stiles was drowning in it, the rush of arousal roaring in his ears, the mind bending realization that he was kissing Derek, was being kissed _by_ him.

A low whimper snagged in his throat as Stiles plastered himself to Derek's chest, pulling at his hips to get closer. Derek growled in response, his tongue begging at the seam of Stiles' lips for entry. When Stiles obliged Derek pushed in, ravenously tangling his tongue with Stiles', a steady rumble vibrating in his chest when he felt Stiles push back just as eagerly.

Minutes passed, or maybe hours, in which the only thing that existed in all of time and space was them. Stiles lost all grip on reality outside of the way it felt to be so tangled up in Derek. He was having a hard time remembering what it felt like to not be fitted together like two people who couldn't possibly belong anywhere other than exactly where they were. It wasn't until Derek's hands spread wide on his ass, fingertips sinking into the soft mounds of flesh and kneading, that Stiles snapped back to himself.

One second he was fully committed to death by Derek's blazing kisses, and the next he was on the other side of the room, panting and swaying in place.

The look on Derek's face was dazed, pupils blown so wide they ate up all the green around them. He made an aborted move, a single step forward that he stopped halfway to the floor. "Stiles?" he questioned.

Stiles was pretty sure that that high, breathy tone was going to kill him on the spot. He fought the blush crawling up his cheeks at the sinfully debauched disaster that was Derek's usually artfully shaped hair, a mess his own fingers had no doubt created without his expressed permission, and tried to make the jumbled mess of words on his tongue come out in something that resembled sense. "You." he tripped over the single syllable, tried again. "You kissed me." he said, hoping the sentence sounded the same to Derek as it did inside his head.

"You kissed me back." Derek breathed, licking his lips as though chasing the taste from them. "Enthusiastically." he added with a slight quirk to one corner of his mouth.

Stiles reached up to press just the tips of his fingers to lips that felt like they were raw and swollen. He could feel the stubble burn pinking his face and couldn't help but smile a little himself before he caught it and schooled his features. "Yeah. Yes, that, uh, that happened."

"It did." Derek's smile was enough to knock Stiles back another step, had his blood singing in his veins.

"I have to go." Stiles wanted to rip his own throat out when Derek's face fell, his smile slipping into a puzzled frown. "This is. I can't. We can't. I gotta go." Stiles stuttered painfully, backing toward the door on legs that shook with every step.

If those sickly green-black clouds the preceded a tornado could be condensed into a vaguely face shaped arrangement, that would be the way Stiles would forever describe the expression Derek wore. "Now who's running away?" Derek asked through clenched teeth, jaw set hard but eyes wounded.

"Me." Stiles admitted, unable to think of anything more insightful to say while his mind was telling him to get the hell out of there, waging battle with his wolf who wanted nothing more than to launch itself back into Derek's arms. "Definitely me."

He didn't look back when he reached the door. Wrenching it open, Stiles flung himself into the hallway, not even bothering with the elevator in favor of fleeing down the stairs. He was man enough to admit that fleeing was exactly what he was doing. Things with Derek had gotten too intense, shifted from one extreme to the other way too fast, and Stiles couldn't get his equilibrium back.

One epic make-out session did not a relationship make, but it did change absolutely everything. Finding out he was Derek's anchor was a lot to take in, a lot to try and comprehend without running the risk of his head exploding. What did it mean, them being each others anchors? Isaac and Scott were each others anchors, but they were well on their way to being proper mates. And then there was Allison who, while human, was still every bit the anchor each of them were to one another.

Was it just a fluke that Stiles and Derek grounded one another in ways no one, nothing else could? Was it just the luck of the draw, the hand they were dealt, that they alone tethered each other to everything human about themselves? A coincidence, a random occurrence?

Or was it more than that? Did being Derek's anchor, and Derek being his, make them like Allison, Isaac, and Scott? Was it some kind of cosmic inevitability, something written in the stars way before either of them had even been thought of? Did anchoring one another to their humanity effect them in other ways? How they felt about each other, for instance. Did the fact that they centered and balanced one another, kept each other from losing themselves to the wolf, did that somehow influence their attraction, their emotional connection, as well?

Question after question wracked Stiles' mind, had him floundering to make sense of anything at all.

Stiles felt sick when he realized he hadn't actually told Derek any of his side of things, hadn't even told him that their feelings appeared to be mutual. He'd been so focused on getting away, on the complete upheaval of everything he thought he knew, that he'd given into blind panic and done exactly what he'd been so furious with Derek for doing.

He ran.

His stomach rolled as he neared his house, only just figuring out that he'd driven all the way home without paying one single iota of attention to the world around him. Grateful that he hadn't caused any accidents- Not that they would have killed him but he could have hurt someone else and that was not any kind of okay. -Stiles slammed the Jeep in park and practically sprinted for the house.

By the time he collapsed, fully clothed and face first onto his bed, Stiles was willing to admit he might have slightly overreacted to the whole making-out with Derek thing. Getting out of there, putting distance between he and Derek, had been the only clear thought in Stiles' head when he bolted. It had been the only reaction he could be absolutely sure of in that particular moment, the only thing he could possibly think to do. While he was sure that getting away and giving himself some time to think things through was a good idea, the way Derek had looked at him, so reminiscent of a recently kicked puppy, made Stiles feel like the unrivaled winner of the Asshole of the Year award for the second time in less than twenty-four hours.

"Fuck my life." he groaned pitifully into his pillow, wrestling down the wolf who was snarling and whining in his head, desperately trying to go back to Derek's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HOPE IT WAS WORTH THE WAIT!


	7. Not Actually A Chapter

_This isn't actually a chapter, this is more of a notification that I'm an idiot._

Edited to add: So, I'm a dumb ass. When I originally published **chapter 4: Words Like Daggers** , I left out the entire first section and am now kicking myself repeatedly. I added it for those who are interested in seeing Derek's reaction to Stiles' rebuff at the end of the previous chapter. There are some important bits of info in that section so I would suggest going back to read it!

I'm sorry!


	8. Call It A Draw

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to say that I don't leave you guys with cliffhangers on purpose but that would be a lie, and Stiles and I are working on our honesty.

It was half past midnight when Stiles stirred, not so much sleeping as he was trying to stop existing all together. The wolf within shivered, a reaction to his Alpha drawing near and a detail of his new life Stiles swore he would never get used to.

"You good?" Scott asked, a smirk trying to curl one side of his mouth as he climbed in through the window, bringing with him the scent of forest and a few stray leaves sticking out of his hair.

"Absolutely." Stiles lied, rolling onto his side so that he could look at Scott with slightly squinted eyes. "How went the recon?"

Scott, amazing bro that he was, took the change of subject for what it was even though Stiles had no delusions about the fact that he was drenched in Derek's scent. "Uneventful, thank God." Scott sighed tiredly, falling into the chair at Stiles' desk. "Really informative, though."

With the tease of new information hanging in the air Stiles scrambled to perch on the edge of his bed, leaning forward and threatening, "Tell me everything or I swear to God I will put your cup in the freezer before each and every practice."

"You're a terrible person." Scott's nose crinkled adorably and he squirmed in his seat.

"You better believe it. Spill." Stiles urged, his thirst for information and the promise of a good distraction making him jiggle his leg impatiently.

"Well, they're definitely planning something. They've got enough hardware to wipe out us and the entire population of Beacon Hills." Scott made a face, threading his hands through his hair and frowning at the leaf he found. "Carrick wasn't there but his second was, some bag of dicks named Sean. Anyway, Erica and Boyd overheard them talking about going after an Alpha but they didn't catch any names."

"Like that matters?" Stiles growled, glad to let his wolf free now that he no longer had to hide him. "Who else could they possibly be talking about, Scott? Satomi and her pack aren't technically part of Beacon Hills proper and we'd know if there were any other Alpha's on our territory."

"Oh, no. It's definitely me." Scott shifted, wincing down at the chair he was occupying before grumbling and climbing to his feet. He plopped down beside Stiles, sprawling flat on his back on the bed. "Looks like Lochlann was right."

"They're coming after us." Stiles nodded, biting at the skin around his thumb nail as he considered that. "Alright, we can handle that, right? We've taken on hunter clans before and come out on top. Even the Calaveras learned not to fuck with us. How bad can a couple rogue hunters be?"

"According to Chris? Pretty bad." Scott didn't bother sitting up to watch Stiles when he started pacing.

"Kanima level, bad," Stiles wanted to know, "or professional assassins level, bad? These are important distinctions, Scott."

"Like, if Deucalion and Peter had a secret love child levels of bad, dude." Scott snorted blandly, shifting up on the bed and rolling onto his belly so he could burrow into Stiles' pillows.

And that... That was going to give Stiles nightmares. "Shit." he huffed out on a rough exhale, flopping down beside Scott.

"Yep." Scott agreed, voice muffled by the pillow he'd smashed his face into.

Silence settled between them, easy and familiar. Stiles had just begun to wonder if Scott had fallen asleep when a frustrated snuffle sounded from the pillows next to his head.

"Okay, I tried, but I gotta ask."

Stiles whimpered dramatically, kicking himself for not taking an hour long, scalding hot shower the minute he got home.

Scott turned to watch Stiles' profile, eyeing him with hesitant interest. "Do I want to know why you smell like Derek rubbed himself all over you?"

Unable to stop the embarrassed laughter that burst from his mouth, Stiles threw an arm across his face to uselessly hide the flush splotching his cheeks. "I think you just answered your own question, buddy."

Scott hummed as though that were exactly the answer he'd been expecting. "So... Is this a thing? Or just, like, a one-off type deal?"

"I genuinely could not even begin to tell you." Stiles shrugged, no more sure of where he and Derek stood than he'd been when he hightailed it out of the loft. After a long beat he added, "It could be a thing. I mean, I think it could be, anyway."

"Do you want it to be?" Scott questioned, bending a knee up between them, arms shoved under his pillow. "I know that you were pissed at him for leaving but, well, he's back now, right? Doesn't that count for anything?"

"I think I liked you better when you thought he was a murderer." Stiles grumped, glaring up at the white expanse of his ceiling as he slipped his arm beneath his head.

Scott chuckled, bumping his knee to Stiles' hip. "I'm just saying, man. Derek is a good guy. A little angsty sometimes, but I think he's got a right to be. He doesn't scowl nearly as much as he used to, you know? And, he even smiles sometimes now. Have you seen the way he smiles when someone talks about you? It's disgustingly cute." his tone teasing the last part.

Warmth bloomed through Stiles' bloodstream, his pulse stuttering. "Liar." he denied, pleased despite himself.

"Whatever, asshole." Scott punched his shoulder playfully. "I'm just saying, maybe see what happens. You never know, Stiles. It could be awesome."

Stiles finally looked over at his brother, seeing nothing but open honesty glittering in his dopey brown eyes. "You think we'd be awesome?" he asked, whispering it into the small space between them, wanting to believe but terrified to let himself.

"I think you could be. Weirder combinations exist." Scott shrugged again, his mouth tugging up at the corners. "Orange and blue, right?"

"Oh my God." Stiles groaned, a fresh wave of embarrassment flooding through him at the memory of his failed attempt at trying to talk Lydia into giving him a chance. "You heard that?!"

Scott laughed at the surprised flail Stiles let out, ducking to avoid a rouge limb. "Werewolf hearing, dude. What can you do?"

"I hate you so hard right now." Stiles groused even as he rolled sideways to tangle their legs together, his wolf rumbling contentedly at the contact.

"Me too." Scott yawned, settling more solidly into the mattress. "Set an alarm?"

Stiles caught the end of Scott's yawn with his own, suddenly feeling heavy-limbed and like he might actually be able to sleep. "Way ahead of you, bro." he mumbled, already slipping into unconsciousness.

 

*

 

Derek had almost forgotten how quiet, how empty, his loft felt without the pack around to fill it with sound. With all of them at school the silence was deafening, making his ears ring with the emptiness. Thankfully they'd relayered their scent into his furniture, covering the dusty smell of his absence with the scent of pack. His couch smelled the most like Stiles, his scent having soaked into its fabric like red wine on a white carpet, stark and unmissable. Every time Derek walked past the damn thing his skin tingled and his heart fluttered.

Fucking _fluttered_ , for Christ's sake.

He was done for, really. Anyway he looked at the situation, he was lost to his feelings for Stiles, to the way Stiles made him feel. It was a battle lost but one Derek couldn't bring himself to be angry for losing.

Telling Stiles about the anchor situation didn't feel like a bad idea, but Derek found himself questioning that when he remembered the way Stiles had booked it after he'd kissed him, tail between his legs and all. Worse, while Derek was hurt and even a little bit angry with the way Stiles handled the situation, he still understood it.

It was beyond hypocritical of Stiles to take off the way he had, especially after all the shit he'd given Derek for doing the same, but Derek couldn't blame Stiles for it. What happened between them, no matter how long it had been building, had still thrown both of them for a loop. And Stiles was the king of staunchly ignoring the things he wasn't ready to deal with. The shift from almost entirely platonic into quite obviously not at all platonic was a lot to process, and taking the time to work through it coherently was a good idea, even if the execution was severely lacking.

As far as kissing Stiles, it certainly hadn't felt wrong or bad in any sense of the words. Not that Derek was the best person to judge those kind of things, honestly. Kissing Kate and Jennifer hadn't felt wrong, either, but...

Well, everyone knew how those stories turned out.

Still, kissing Stiles felt right in a way kissing Braeden never had, and kissing Braeden had been fantastic. Something about it being Stiles, though- The sarcastically inclined, sharp-tongued and quick-witted pain in the ass Derek had begun falling for while sitting in the Jeep in front of the police station the night Stiles gave up a run at first line to help Derek, and then had careened head over heels for while surrounded by the burning scent of chlorine and the knowledge that he was safe with Stiles, that Stiles wouldn't, or couldn't, let Derek drown. -made it different, made it mean something on a level Derek had never experienced before.

Or, it had until Stiles ripped himself away and stared at Derek in wide-eyed shock, arousal cloying in the air quickly souring with fear and utter confusion. Terrified, Derek thought, was a good way to describe the feeling he got from Stiles as he tore out of the loft like a bat out of Hell. After that, Derek kind of felt hollow, a hole opening in his chest and filling in with his own fear that he'd messed things up between them, and for good this time.

Standing in his too quiet loft, watching the clock tick down to dismissal in the hopes that at least some of the pack would show up and save him from the maddening lack of noise, Derek wondered if Stiles would try to avoid him for a while. The thought made his stomach pinch and clench, the idea of not only being without access to his anchor so close to the full moon, now less than a week away, but of being away from the boy he maybe, possibly, definitely loved a little bit making his chest ache anew and his wolf whimper sadly.

Being with Cora during the last three full moons made being so far away from his anchor easier to manage. She was family, a link to everything that had ever been human about him before the fire. Even still, he'd had a little trouble maintaining when the moon was full, the new power of the full wolf form surging through his body like high tide. Being home for the first time since his evolution, being close to Stiles, would make maintaining control easier, but Derek wasn't sure how the current state of their relationship would effect things.

Buzzing from his back pocket startled Derek out of his thoughts. He checked the message, a reluctant grin tugging at his lips when he saw Stiles' name on the screen.

**From Stiles:  
-I'm an asshole.**

Derek's grin widened, a wary thread of optimism weaving through him. Maybe things weren't as ruined as he originally thought.

**From Derek:  
** **-I agree.**  
 **-Wholeheartedly.**

Fifteen minutes later, while Derek was pretending to be busy rearranging the furniture in his living room, his phone vibrated again.

**From Stiles:  
** **-Wanna take me out for curly fries after school?**  
 **-Yes, this is my way of apologizing. You should probably take notes.**

Derek laughed out loud into the silence, not even hesitating before tapping out:

**From Derek:  
-Me buying you curly fries is you apologizing?**

He hit send before dropping his phone onto the bed and heading for the bathroom, enough time until school let out for him to grab a quick shower.

He heard his phone vibrate halfway through but absolutely did not rush to finish just so he could check it. He didn't, no matter what the wet footprints littering his bedroom floor might imply.

**From Stiles:  
** **-Obviously.**  
 **-I'll even let you by me a sundae if you play your cards right.**

Shaking his head fondly and trying to remind himself that he should be angrier than his stupid, cheesy smile implied, Derek replied:

**From Derek:  
-You truly are a generous and benevolent werewolf, Stiles.**

He'd just dragged on a pair of jeans and a threadbare plum colored t-shirt when Stiles' response came through.

**From Stiles:  
** **-Eh. Being all 'Grr, aargh!" all the time is too much effort.**  
 **-No idea how you managed it for so long.**

Derek's shoulders shook with silent laughter while he texted back.

**From Derek:  
-Practice makes perfect, young Padawan.**

Smirking as he sent it, Derek shook his head, trying to shake the smile right off his face. He knew he should be more upset with Stiles, should probably growl and glare and posture a little bit, just to get the point across, but he couldn't find it in him to actually do so. It wasn't as though Stiles had panicked specifically to hurt Derek, after all. Holding it against him was only going to make things more difficult to figure out in the long run, and Derek was all for figuring out where they stood sooner rather than later.

Almost immediately his phone buzzed again and Derek imagined he could feel Stiles' frustration-laced excitement through his words.

**From Stiles:  
** **-Of course you've seen it, you smug bastard.**  
 **-You're the fucking worst, dude. How am I supposed to concentrate on this Chem lab with that information?!**

Derek's chest felt full to overflowing, an effervescent satiety making his ribcage feel just a little too small.

**From Derek:  
-Use your anchor.**

He snarked, throwing all the years of werewolf jokes back at Stiles with a proud smirk.

It was a lot longer before Stiles texted back that time, so long that Derek thought he wasn't going to answer at all. When the response finally did come in, the levity was gone from Stiles' words, making Derek wonder where they'd fallen out of flirtatious sync.

**From Stiles:  
-See you after school.**

Derek frowned at the four word reply, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. He shrugged off the warning flare of nerves prickling between his shoulders, chalking it up to his own worries getting the better of him, and dropped his phone onto his bed to go finish getting ready.

 

*

 

To say he was nervous was probably the understatement of the century as far as Stiles was concerned. He spent most of his classes throughout the day trying to figure out the best way to go about apologizing to Derek. He felt like he had a lot to apologize for and never in his life had he had so much riding on his ability to form a reasonable explanation for his behavior. Derek's willingness to banter through texts seemed to suggest his receptiveness but that did little to stop Stiles from chewing nervously on his straw while he waited for him to show up. Stiles managed to gnarl the plastic into a twisted, unrecognizable mess by the time Derek stepped into the diner, a hesitant, nervous little smile curling his lips as he made his way to the table.

Stiles was doomed.

"Hey." he greeted, nearly tipping his soda over in his rush to tuck hands shaking with nerves beneath the table before Derek got a look at them.

Sliding in across from him, Derek's smile turned warm and genuine. "Hey."

Awkward silence stretched between them for a long beat until Stiles cleared his throat, leaping headfirst into the deep end. "Right. So, I, uh... I wanted to apologize." he said, his voice quivering slightly with the same nerves that jangled his limbs.

Derek's brows lifted at that. "Isn't that why I'm buying you curly fries?" he asked, his tone teasing even as his scent took on an air of uneasy anticipation.

Stiles chuckled thinly, lifting a hand to scratch at the back of his neck. "Yeah, well..." he took a deep breath, reminding himself that nothing was ever going to change unless he took the risk, and plunged into it, his words coming out in a jumbled heap. "Derek, I'm sorry, okay? Like, really really fucking sorry. Not just for taking off last night, but for everything. The way I've been acting... It isn't fair to you. I had no right to blame you or try to make you feel guilty for doing what you had to do to take care of yourself, I was just being selfish and immature and I'm sorry. I was hurt and angry, and stupidly thought that hurting you would make me feel better."

They were interrupted when their waitress came to take Derek's order, and Stiles sat rigid and anxious the entire time, gnawing the inside of his cheeks while he waited for her to leave them alone again.

"Did it?" Derek asked as soon as the waitress stepped away, leaning forward with his elbows on the table, his eyes watching every shift and tick of Stiles' facial muscles. "Did hurting me make you feel better?"

"Not really." Stiles admitted, shoving his fingers through his hair. "It mostly made me feel like an asshole, actually. I don't like hurting people. Or, not the people I care about, anyway. Kicking bad guy ass is still one of my favorite things to do, in all honesty."

"I feel like I should bust your balls for the 'people I care about' comment, but I don't want you to stop talking." Derek grinned, making Stiles' heart skip like a school girl.

"Good call." Stiles smiled back, some of the tension easing out of his spine at how easy it was to fall back into familiar teasing with Derek. "That's new, though." he pointed out, not unhappily.

"What is?" Derek asked, tilting his head as his eyebrows drew together curiously.

"You wanting to hear what I have to say, instead of telling me to shut up." Stiles shrugged, unable to stop the warm rush of affection blossoming beneath his skin. "It's nice. Strange, but nice."

Derek didn't say anything, didn't have to, really. The mega-watt smile he gave Stiles was enough to have him shaking his head to rearrange his thoughts.

"Stop flirting with me!" he ordered, unable to reign in the wide curve of his mouth as it split his face. "I'm trying to apologize here, in case you hadn't noticed."

"Stiles, I appreciate the effort, but you don't have to apologize." Derek leaned back when their waitress returned with his iced tea, draping his arm along the back of his bench seat in a way that had his deep purple t-shirt pulling tight across his chest. Stiles tried not to let jealousy show on his face at the way the waitress eyed Derek, openly appreciative."Consider us even. Let's just wipe the slate clean and start over." Derek said, making Stiles blink and refocus.

"But..." Stiles frowned, the first time he'd done so since Derek walked in. "At least let me explain what happened last night-"

"You freaked out." Derek lifted one shoulder, letting it drop back down. "Things got heavy and you needed to get out. I can't say it didn't sting, but I get it."

Stiles narrowed his eyes dubiously. "This is way too easy. Who are you and what have you done with my Derek?"

Derek let out a bright bark of laughter as Stiles blushed a ridiculous shade of red. "Your Derek?"

"Shut up." Stiles snapped, scowling down at the table. "You know what I meant."

"Look," Derek tapped his foot against Stiles' beneath the table until Stiles looked up to meet his eye. "We both fucked up, we both know we fucked up. What's the point in going tit for tat? We're just going to end up in some weird back and forth, doing whatever we can to hurt each other until one, or both of us lands a hit we can't take back. Is that really what you want?"

Stiles' studied Derek's face for a long time, let the honesty in his mesmerizing green eyes settle into his sternum to ease some of the anxiety that had taken root there, let the lazy slope of Derek's smile wrap around his bones and soothe the worried ache. "No." he finally said, a flicker of hope lighting deep inside his chest. "That's really, really not what I want."

"Me either." Derek smiled, his eyes flickering between Stiles' own as he caught Stiles' foot with both of his under the table. "So, eat your curly fries." He tipped his head toward their waitress, who was bringing their food over on a tray.

"We still need to talk." Stiles reiterated, ignoring the renewed slam of his heart. "There's something that I haven't told you yet, and you really need to know before-"

Derek's phone chose that moment to ring, the vibration making Stiles' ears itch. Pulling it from the pocket inside his jacket, Derek frowned down at the screen. "It's Allison."

Stiles' stomach sank as Derek answered.

"Hey, Allis-" His mouth turned down sharply, eyes darkening as he listened.

Stiles had just enough time to tune his hearing into the call to catch not Allison, but Jackson say, "- _with Malia in the preserve. We're taking him to Deaton's. Where are you?_ "

"We'll be right there." Derek growled, already slapping a few bills down on the table and climbing out of the booth, Stiles hot on his heels, neither of them paying any attention to the perplexed look their waitress shot after them.

"What happened, Derek?" Stiles asked, panic lancing through him as worst case scenarios filtered through his mind one after another. "Who's hurt?"

Derek waited until they were outside in the parking lot before turning back, his eyes solid steel as they met Stiles' worried ones. "It's Isaac. The hunters-"

Stiles didn't need to hear another word, already running for the Jeep.


	9. It's All In The Technicalities

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: So, I feel like now is where I should probably point out that Stiles is 17 here. Where I'm from the age of consent is 17 but in California it's 18, and BH is in California so Stiles is still _technically_ underage.
> 
> If that makes you uncomfortable in any way you'll probably want to bail out now before shit gets real. This chapter is relatively tame in regards to the sexytimes stuff, but the same can not be said for what's coming up.

Sprinting into the clinic felt like trying to run through Jell-O. Stiles' legs nearly gave out as he shoved through the front door, ignoring the bell ringing above his head to focus on the tear soaked hunter holding open the barrier for him.

"What the hell happened?" Stiles demanded, stopping his forward charge to pull Allison into his arms, tucking her head up under his chin just as Derek came in behind him.

Allison gasped through a fresh wave of tears, shaking as Stiles held her. "He was- Running patrol with Malia."

"Jackson said hunters?" Derek asked gently, running a gentle hand over Allison's hair in comfort.

She nodded, lifting red-rimmed eyes to look between them. "Wolfsbane bullet." she shuddered, her fingers twisting in the fabric of Stiles' hoodie as tears streamed down her cheeks unchecked. "He... He almost died, Stiles."

"Shh, I've got you." Stiles pulled her back in, murmuring softly and sending a pleading look at Derek.

Derek nodded, ducking through the door into the exam room. Stiles let Allison cry into his chest, listened to the others talking just beyond the doorway.

" _Scott_." Derek's voice was an angry, worried rumble in the silence.

" _I'm gonna kill them, Derek._ " Scott said, his tone the kind of calm that scared Stiles, the kind that spoke of just how close he was to straddling the line and loosing. " _I'm going to fucking tear them apart._ "

" _Hey._ " There was the dry rasp of skin against skin, the rustle of fabric, then Derek's voice again. " _Just tell me what happened._ "

" _It's my fault._ " Malia's voice cut in, all sharp, clipped syllables. " _I was tracking a scent, didn't realize it was a trap until I heard the gun click. Isaac... He tackled me out of the way, caught the shot._ "

" _He's going to be okay, though?_ " Derek asked, the almost parental plea clear in his tone and making Stiles' heart clench.

Isaac was the first for Derek, the first teenager he saved with the bite. Of course Jackson had been the actual, literal first to receive Derek's bite, the first one turned at Derek's hand. But, where Jackson hadn't needed saving, had just wanted the power that came with being a wolf after having seen what it did for Scott, Isaac was different. He'd needed someone, a champion, a hero, who could show him the way out, guide him away from a life of being beaten on a regular basis by the very man meant to protect him. Derek had done that, given Isaac the power to save himself and a family that would lay their lives down for his.

While it hadn't always been like that, and Derek's motives may not have been the purest back in the beginning, the end result was the same. They were family, all of them, and Isaac had been the start of it. He was the one Derek chose, the first choice he got to make because he wanted to and not because someone else forced or coerced him into it. Derek always saw Isaac as the first thing he'd gotten right, the decision he'd never regret making no matter how hard they'd had to fight to get there.

Deaton's voice responded, trying to reassure. " _Thankfully, the bullet missed Isaac's heart, as well as all of his vital organs._ " he explained calmly. " _I'm hesitant to make any definitive statements on his prognosis until after he wakes, but I think Isaac's chances are high for a full recovery._ "

Allison shifted in Stiles' arms, wrapping one arm around his waist to lean against him, letting him hold her up. He didn't resist when she steered them toward the back, apparently having decided she was finished allowing herself a moment of vulnerability.

"What kind of wolfsbane is it, then?" Derek was asking when Stiles and Allison entered the room.

Stiles tried not to let his emotions take over at the sight of Isaac, limp and pale where he was laid out on the metal exam table in the room's center, the front of his blue t-shirt soaked purple and black with blood. His eyes were closed, his skin ashy and waxen under the harsh fluorescent lights.

"A rare strain, one that targets the wolf's neurological functions rather than their cardiovascular system." Lydia said, drawing Stiles' eyes, her own eyes blood-shot and wet, rimmed with smudged mascara. "If Jackson hadn't thought to grab the hunter's gun we might not have been able to stop the poison before it could do any lasting, critical damage. As it is, we'll just have to wait and see."

Derek and Scott both growled at that, and Allison left Stiles' side to go to Scott, wrapping her arms around his vibrating shoulders from behind and pressing her nose into the curve of his neck, shushing him softly.

"The hunter who did it?" Stiles asked, pressure in his gums letting him know that his fangs were eager to drop.

It was Jackson who answered this time, tone icy and eyes flashing blue. "Dead."

"So much for not inciting a war." Stiles said, no judgment or admonishment in his voice. He knew without question that he'd have done the same thing in Jackson's position.

"And the rest of them?" Derek asked, shifting closer to Stiles' side, the warmth of his body bleeding through the thickness of Stiles' sweatshirt not enough to even momentarily distract him from the bloodthirst burning in his throat.

Malia sneered, her own eyes glinting with an unquenched thirst for revenge. "They ran. Jackson said that getting Isaac to Deaton was the priority-"

"Of course it was." Allison interrupted, her hand a steady anchor where it lay over Scott's heart in an effort to ground him.

"So, we let them go." Malia finished, her tone making it clear that she'd have much rather torn the hunters limb from limb on the spot.

"Not for long." Stiles growled, turning on his heel to make for the door.

Before he could make it more than a step there was a hand curling around his elbow, jerking him back. "Where do you think you're going?" Derek asked evenly, brows drawn down over the bridge of his nose.

Stiles shook off his hand, allowed the shift to ripple through him enough that his fangs partially unsheathed and his eyes burned Gold. "To find the rest of them and tear them apart." he snarled.

"Not a chance in hell." Derek growled thickly, the outermost ring of his irises glowing. "You can't go charging into a hunter camp by yourself because you're angry, Stiles."

"Angry?" Stiles spat as Scott rose from his stool, fists clenched tight around fully extended claws. "I'm not angry, I'm fucking livid! They shot Isaac, Derek! Shot to kill, not to injure. They tried to shoot Malia! What are we supposed to do? Sit and wait for them to come to us?"

"You're not helping!" Allison snapped, her fingers digging into Scott's sides so hard that the skin around them was bloodless white, her feet planted firmly in an effort to hold him back from leading the charge.

Derek reached out again, this time to snag Stiles by the neck of his hoodie. He pulled him in, let the electric blue recede into green and said softly, "You need to calm down and think, Stiles. Our Alpha, your brother, is too close to the edge. He can't see anything beyond the fact that the man he loves is laying on that table because of a bunch of psychotic hunters." Derek's eyes glittered with something knowing, an ember of knowledge that made Stiles' breath catch and swell behind his breastbone. "If you guys go into this fueled by revenge, you'll both pay for it with your lives. Do you want to see Scott killed over a vendetta?" Derek asked, his tone calm but deadly serious.

Stiles, shaking with the effort of restraint, looked Derek in the eye, found strength and determination glowing in their depths. He let Derek's scent flood his senses, allowed it to engulf and surround him, anchor his wolf before his human half lost its grip and the wolf could seek revenge for its pack. Risking a quick glance over Derek's shoulder to where Scott was struggling not to fight Allison's hold on him, Stiles found his best friend waging a similar battle with his instincts, Scott's face a mask of rage and a pain so intense it made Stiles' body throb in sympathy.

Stiles returned his attention to Derek and forced his eyes to bleed back into their human shade, fought to reign in the shift singing through his bloodstream, tamped down on the howl building in his chest, the promise of an eye for an eye, blood for blood.

"We'll take care of the hunters, I promise." Derek murmured the vow, his gaze never wavering from Stiles'. "But we'll do it as a pack, and we will do it the right way."

In the tense silence that followed Stiles latched onto his anchor, let Derek's mere presence bring him back to himself so that he could see things clearly and objectively rather than through the crimson haze of retribution. Allison coaxed Scott into sinking back onto the stool he'd vacated, dropping his head into his hands as she draped her body over his back and whispered soothing words into the back of his neck. Lydia let Jackson wrap an arm around her shoulders, press a tender kiss to her temple while both of them stared at Isaac's prone form.

"Malia!" Kira's terrified voice pierced the veil of quiet as she tore through the waiting room, two sets of familiar footsteps not more than a step behind.

Derek pulled Stiles out of the way just in time for Kira to barge through the door and launch herself across the room, dragging Malia into the circle of her arms.

"I'm fine, Kira." Malia assured gently, wrapping her arms around Kira's tiny waist and burying her nose in her hair. "I swear, okay? I'm alright."

"Don't ever do that again!" Kira scolded through the thickness of tears, her arms a tight band around Malia's neck.

"Oh, Isaac." Melissa breathed, her eyes finding him the same way Stiles' had, tears brimming in her eyes for the boy who was her own as much as Scott and Stiles were. "Oh my God."

Sheriff Stilinski raised an inquisitive brow at Stiles, asking without words if he was alright. Stiles gave a jerky nod, a sharp dip of his chin, that the Sheriff accepted without a word.

The room erupted into a chaotic burst of sound, the new arrivals wanting to know what happened while everyone else tried to explain. Scott and Allison faced a crying Melissa, the Sheriff went right for Malia and Jackson, asking for every detail they could remember in the hopes that he could do something from a legal standpoint, and Kira refused to leave Malia's side through it all, her fist clenched in the thin cotton fabric of Malia's t-shirt as if keeping her from slipping off the face of the Earth by sheer force of will alone.

"This isn't right." Stiles mumbled, more to himself than anyone else. He pushed a hand into his hair, scratching at his scalp while his mind whirred, already running through battle plans. "We have to do something."

He didn't have to look to know it was Derek's palm sliding against his, Derek's fingers threading between his and squeezing gently. Still, when he did look over it was to find Derek already looking back at him, his eyes hard and determined.

"We will." Derek swore, his thumb swiping in grounding lines across the fleshy pad below Stiles' thumb. "We will."

 

*

 

The sun was high in a clear blue morning sky by the time Derek could convince Stiles to leave the clinic. Stiles was heart-set on staying by Scott's side, keeping himself awake all through the night in order to be there for Scott and Allison, both of whom refused to leave Isaac's side no matter how hard their parents tried to push them into going home and getting some sleep. Even Chris threatening to hogtie the pair of them hadn't been enough to force Allison and Scott away from Isaac's bedside.

"Go, Stiles." Scott told him when Derek once again brought up leaving. Scott dragged Stiles into a crushing hug before releasing him with a squeeze of his nape and a push toward the door. "One of us will call if anything changes."

Stiles frowned deeply below exhausted eyes, his wolf feebly whining in protest. "Are you sure? I can stay and-"

"Stiles." Derek sighed, one hand in the small of Stiles' back to help urge him outside.

Stiles yawned, mouth so wide his jaw cracked. "Yeah, okay." he grumbled, casting one last look at Isaac, who had been moved onto a folding cot during the night and looked like he was sleeping rather than healing from a nearly fatal gunshot wound. "As soon as he wakes up." Stiles called back over his shoulder as Derek ushered him out into the waiting room.

"Glare all you want, Stiles. You need to sleep." Derek suppressed his own yawn as he opened the front door and led Stiles outside.

"Scott and Allison need to sleep, too." Stiles replied, a hint of petulance glossing his words even as the scent of exhaustion swirled thickly around him. "It's their mate who almost died, Der. I can't even imagine..." The rest of his words were swallowed up by another yawn.

"Let their parents worry about them, while I worry about you." Derek guided Stiles to the Toyota and opened the passenger side door, gesturing for Stiles to climb in. "I promised your father that I would look out for you while he and Parrish followed up on a lead. You wouldn't want me to break a promise to your dad, would you?"

"Low blow." Stiles grumbled halfheartedly. It was truly a testament to how tired Stiles was that he didn't even argue beyond that, simply dragged himself up into the seat and collapsed against it. "I don't-"

"Need me to protect you, yeah I know, I remember." Derek chuckled dryly as he shut the door and made his way around to the driver's side, cutting off whatever Stiles had been trying to say.

Once inside the SUV, Derek turned the heat up and the radio down, glancing over at Stiles in time to watch his eyelashes flutter closed. Derek's heart felt like it was free falling toward the ground, it's weighted thump skipping in its rhythm at the sight of Stiles this trusting and vulnerable.

"Doesn't mean I won't do it anyway." Derek grinned softly, listening to the tiny, breathy sounds of Stiles sinking into sleep as he shifted into gear and drove out of the lot.

 

*

 

Stiles drifted slowly into consciousness, his head feeling groggy and heavy where it rested on his pillows. He blinked open bleary eyes only to be greeted by the sight of Derek's hip, jean clad and throwing out warmth, a mere inch away from his face. Stiles knew it was Derek even without being able to see beyond the dark wash of denim, his scent enveloping Stiles like a second blanket, comforting and familiar. Taking in a deep draw of that earthy, wild scent, Stiles felt his wolf settle further into sleep, as if lulled by it.

Rolling onto his back, Stiles scratched lazily beneath his t-shirt at the trail of hair leading down from his navel, yawning wide and noisy.

"I was starting to wonder if I'd have to use a dog whistle to get you out of bed." Derek said, the soft timbre of his voice making a pleasant sort of chill skitter over Stiles' skin.

"Dog jokes, Derek?" Stiles sighed exaggeratedly, fixing his sleep creased face in a disappointed frown. "And here I thought those were beneath you."

Derek scooted down the bed and onto his side, propping his head in his hand so he could smile down at Stiles. "Never thought I'd get to return the favor." he said with a one shouldered shrug.

Stiles snorted, ignoring the way his blood heated at the smile Derek wore, a smile that made Stiles' bones feel like they were dissolving. Waking up to a sight like that should be outlawed. How was a person's day ever supposed to get better when Derek Hale's smile was one of the first things they saw when they opened their eyes?

"Time is it?" Stiles questioned sleepily, rolling onto his side so he could steal some of Derek's body heat by curling up toward his chest, not close enough to touch but near enough to feel the vibration when he spoke.

"Almost six." Derek said, voice low as he tentatively reached out to run his free hand down the gentle slope of Stiles' side, over the bumps of his ribcage and the jut of his hip, as if testing whether or not he was allowed.

Stiles hummed his approval and scooted closer, erasing the hair's distance between them until he was huddled into Derek, face pressed into the hard plane of his chest and arms tucked between them. "Did you sleep?"

"Little bit." Derek said, the tone of his voice carrying with it the pleased curve of his mouth as his thumb dipped between the hem of Stiles' shirt and started dragging gentle caresses across the skin stretched tight over Stiles' hipbone.

Stiles shivered as a breath caught behind his sternum, his skin buzzing where Derek touched him. "Any news?" he asked, trying desperately to cling to the importance of the question while his brain filled with the thick fog of having Derek so close, of having Derek in his bed.

"Allison called." Derek informed him, his words still coming out hardly more than a gentle murmur as he let his head drop onto his bicep. When he spoke again Stiles could feel the words, breath hot and whisper soft against his scalp. "Nothing urgent, just that Melissa was taking them back to her house to rest while Erica and Boyd sat watch with Isaac. He's still out but, from what Deaton said, he should be awake by morning."

Relief washed through Stiles like a balm, soothing some of the tension he'd been carrying around. He relaxed further into Derek's space, wriggling around to find more contact. His nose fit right into the hollow of Derek's throat as he draped one arm around Derek's waist. "You could have woken me up." he mumbled, though he had to admit he was glad Derek hadn't. Waking up to this was so much better than being woken by a phone call.

Derek shuddered as Stiles' breath ghosted over his throat, his wolf echoing the movement even as he rolled over and bared his belly, his tongue lolling out of his mouth around a goofy lupine grin. Derek huffed a laugh, amused at both his wolf and his... Stiles. "You were dead to the world when I brought you upstairs-"

"Please tell me you used the fireman's carry." Stiles interjected, his tone pleading.

He hadn't really had time to ponder exactly how he'd gotten upstairs and into his own bed upon waking, but it made sense that Derek had carried him. After all, the last thing he remembered was Derek ushering him out of Deaton's and into his Toyota. Still, the idea of being one hundred percent unconscious while Derek carried him made him feel weirdly vulnerable but somehow entirely safe at the same time.

"Full on bridal style." Derek chuckled. He could feel the flush creeping onto Stiles' cheeks, his own skin warming where Stiles mashed his face into his neck. "You're heavier now than you were as a human." he added, hoping to set Stiles at ease by slipping into more familiar territory.

"Oh, bite me." Stiles laughed, shoving at Derek playfully. "I've never been in better shape. You should see my abs, dude." he said as he rolled halfway onto his back, drawing his shirt up to display the muscles in question. "Look at these bad boys."

While Stiles had always been lithe and strong, he'd never really had much definition. As a human he'd been all long, lean muscles and compact power. Now, as a wolf, Stiles' abdomen was made up of ridges and valleys, swells and dips of hard muscles. The deep cuts of his pelvis were smooth and mouthwatering, a perfect V to frame the doubtlessly beautiful cock that Derek could just barely make out the bulge of behind the zipper of Stiles' jeans.

Derek swallowed hard as his scent changed, something darker and heavier settling in place of the lighter, content scent of the moment before. Stiles' eyes glittered with humor when he glanced up at Derek, only to dilate and glaze over when he registered the change.

Licking his lips, Stiles shifted back onto his side and wiggled around a bit, scooching up the bed until they were laying face to face. "Thank you." he said seriously, taking Derek by surprise.

"For what?" Derek questioned, brows dipping down over eyes that tracked every minute shift of Stiles' face like they couldn't help it.

A slow smile spread across Stiles' face and he reached up between them to cup one hand to Derek's stubble-rough jawline. "For looking out for me, making sure I didn't get all of us killed last night."

"I thought you didn't want me trying to protect you?" Derek challenged, fighting back another shudder from the feeling of Stiles' thumb stroking softly over the facial hair that peppered his cheeks.

"Derek?" Stiles asked quietly. When Derek hummed a response, he added, "Shut up and accept my gratitude without the sarcasm."

Derek didn't get a chance to respond, not when Stiles was pressing their lips together, not when his fingers were curling around the back of Derek's neck, molding flawlessly to the contours of his skull as he pressed forward. Derek's grip tightened on Stiles' waist, pulled him in tight and flush until there was no room left between them for anything but the thin fabric of the t-shirts separating them.

The fleeting thought that this was a bad idea nudged at the back of Stiles' mind. There was still so much that they needed to talk about, so many things that they needed to figure out before they could take this leap. But he couldn't make himself stop, couldn't bring himself to pull away from the subtle burn of Derek's body where they were nearly fused together, couldn't force himself to release Derek even if only to draw the breath his lungs were just starting to scream for.

Stiles sank further into Derek, arching into him when he felt Derek's flattened palm sear into the small of his back, urging him closer still despite the lack of space between their smoldering bodies. Stiles' fingers slid into Derek's hair, threading through silken strands only to twist and tangle there. Derek moaned low, sensation zinging from his scalp to the tips of his toes. Taking advantage of Derek's slightly parted lips, Stiles flicked his tongue against Derek's teeth until he opened, thrusting his own tongue out to greet it.

They kissed slow and unhurried while Derek's fingers danced over Stiles' skin, slipped up under his t-shirt to skim along his spine, followed the ridges of his ribs and down. Stiles sucked in a jagged breath when Derek's fingertips glided along the bumps of his abs, the muscles clenching and quivering under his touch.

"Derek." Stiles gasped on a shuddering breath when the very tips of Derek's fingers snuck under the waist of his jeans.

Derek mouthed along the freckled angle of Stiles' jaw, leaving a wet trail of scorched skin down to his throat. Stiles' fingers tightened in Derek's hair when Derek's teeth closed none too gently over the pulse pounding in his neck.

"Do you have any idea what you do to me, Stiles?" Derek whispered into his skin, tongue slipping out to trace the quickly fading indents of his teeth. "How your scent makes me crazy, but somehow centers me all at the same time." he murmured, nosing up the line of Stiles' throat and inhaling gently. "How your fucking mouth makes my head swim and my entire body throb."

Stiles whimpered, tipping his head back to grant Derek more access when he nuzzled at the fleshy softness beneath Stiles' ear. He wrapped one leg around Derek's waist, his thigh nestled into the soft dip of Derek's side."If you're trying to kill me, there are less sexy ways to accomplish that."

Derek growled, deep and rolling, as he buried his face in Stiles' neck and dotted warm, slightly damp kisses to his skin. "That's not even a little funny."

Stiles laughed thinly, his chest feeling swollen and torn open at the tender way Derek kissed him juxtaposed with the fierce, protective edge lacing his words. "Okay, Der. Okay." he agreed easily, skimming his hand down the back of Derek's neck to soothe him, spreading it wide between his shoulder blades, right where the Triskele inked his skin.

"Shit." Derek growled again, though this time it was annoyed instead of the reprimand of a moment before. "Your dad is coming." he sighed, letting his forehead thunk down on Stiles' collarbone, not bothering to disentangle their limbs.

Stiles listened but didn't hear the familiar rumble of his dad's engine. "Where?" he asked, curious how far Derek's senses extended beyond what his own were capable of.

"Not nearly far enough out for us to finish this." Derek gruffed, planting one last kiss to Stiles' clavicle before leaning away to meet this gaze. "A dozen blocks or so, maybe."

Stiles was impressed but couldn't resist quirking an amused brow. "Were you listening for him the whole time?" he asked, chuckling at the way Derek shifted uncomfortably.

"I'd really rather not get caught fucking the Sheriff's still technically underage son, in the Sheriff's house, by the Sheriff." Derek rolled his eyes but his smile was still fond.

"Who said anything about fucking his son?" Stiles grinned, purposefully shifting his hips where their bodies were still intimately entwined. They were both hard, both worked up and flushed with desire, and Stiles had to fight back a groan at the tiny bit of friction his wriggling caused.

Derek huffed a laugh, shaking his head as he leaned in to brush a chaste but lingering kiss to Stiles' lips. "If I didn't know better I'd think you were trying to get me shot." he mumbled into Stiles' mouth when he refused to let Derek pull away.

Stiles' eyes flashed Gold and he had to blink a few times to right them. "He wouldn't shoot you, Derek. My dad actually likes you, oddly enough. And I'll be eighteen soon, so it's not like it's really that bad. Besides, he already knows how I feel about you-" he cut himself off, cringing internally.

"Funny." Derek hefted one heavy brow. "I don't even know how you feel about me."

"Do we have to have this particular conversation right now?" Stiles asked, pulling away from Derek's embrace to climb off the bed, scrubbing a hand through his hair as he went.

Derek watched him, laid out on his back on the bed. "No." he allowed as Stiles dug through his dresser drawers, tossing a few articles of clothing onto the floor by his feet. "But we're going to have it eventually."

"Absolutely." Stiles nodded as he scooped up the clothes from the floor an tossed half of them onto Derek's stomach. "Just not right now." he repeated. "I'm gonna go take a quick shower before dad gets home." he tossed over his shoulder on his way into the hall.

Derek stared after him and tried not to listen to Stiles muttering under his breath in the bathroom as John's cruiser pulled into the drive. Pushing himself up from the bed, Derek went downstairs to greet him, figuring it was a better plan than waiting for the Sheriff to come upstairs.


	10. Tell Me Again, And Again, And Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sincerely hope that this chapter (and the next) have been worth all the build up. I'm always a wreck when I post these kinds of chapters so I would really, really, _really_ appreciate any feedback you guys have!
> 
> Gah, I hope you enjoy it!

“What...” 

“Hey Son.” the Sheriff greeted, glancing up with an amused quirk to his lips at where Stiles had skidded to an abrupt stop in the kitchen doorway. “Derek and I were just thinking about ordering something to eat. Any requests?”

“What.” Stiles tried again, sure that his brain had to kick in and help him out at some point. 

It wasn't his fault, really. Who in their right minds would ever consider the possibility of entering their kitchen only to find Derek Hale having a beer with their father, sitting across the table from one another like that was a perfectly normal, every day occurrence? That wasn't the kind of thing anyone would ever be prepared to see. It was just so normal, so... Domestic.

It made Stiles' heart ache a little, a dull throbbing feeling that told him, without a doubt, he was in way over his head.

“Chinese it is.” John was flat out grinning as he shoved away from the table and grabbed the menu from the drawer beneath the coffee pot, walking out of the kitchen and patting Stiles heartily on the back as he went.

Stiles narrowed his eyes at a smirking Derek, who only smirked wider, his eyes dancing with amusement. “Don't blame me.” He shrugged. “It would have been rude to turn him down when he offered me a drink.”

“It also probably would have saved my sanity.” Stiles grumped without conviction, crossing the kitchen to rip open the refrigerator just so he could have something to do with his hands. 

“I think that's a lost cause.” Derek said, eyeing Stiles as he poured a glass of apple juice.

“You're funny when you're not being a mangsty, homicidal dickhead.” Stiles grinned around the lip of his glass and tried to will his heartbeat even. 

It was a hard feat to accomplish with Derek's eyes feeling like a physical weight as they looked him over, lingering at the still damp, floppy mess of hair on top of his head with a tiny smile that had Stiles' belly fluttering wildly.

“Mangsty?” Derek asked, green eyes sparkling with laughter.

Stiles couldn't stop the laugh that bubbled in his chest as he sat in the chair his father had vacated, throwing his feet up in Derek's lap beneath the table. “You heard me.” he said. “I'd repeat it in another language for you, you know, to help you really grasp the concept, but I don't think mangsty exists in any other languages.”

“Stiles.” Derek deadpanned. “I'm not entirely sure it even exists in English.”

Stiles choked on a sip of juice when he tried to laugh and swallow at the same time, sputtering and coughing as he wiped a few stray droplets from his lips. “Does the rest of the pack know that you're funny?” he wheezed. “Or am I the only one privy to this information? Have you been amusing this whole time?” 

“I've always been funny, Stiles.” Derek rolled his eyes, a mischievous smile beginning to curl his lips. “You were just too busy staring at my ass to notice.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes across the table, poking Derek hard in the thigh with his bare toes. “You can't hold that against me.” he protested. “It's a great ass, dude. Really fills out a pair of jeans.”

Derek's teasing smile turned into a full blown salacious grin, a glint of something full of promise and hot like burning shining in his eyes. “Wait until you see it out of them.”

Pure, undiluted lava poured into Stiles' gut, scorching his insides and setting fire to his skin. “I hate you.” he all but whimpered, squeezing his thighs together and shifting in place in an effort to slow the rush of blood to his cock, quickly filling up against his thigh.

“I know.” Derek winked.

Derek Hale fucking winked at him, okay? Stiles was willing to admit he'd completely lost control of his life. 

“Food will be here in half an hour.” John announced, reentering the kitchen.

Stiles and Derek averted their gazes from where they'd been simply staring at one another. Derek's eyes fell back down to the bottle between his palms and Stiles cleared his throat as he looked to his father.

“Good, I'm starving.” Stiles tossed out, glad to hear his voice come out relatively level and even despite the inferno raging beneath his skin and the erection tenting his sweatpants under the table top.

John looked between the two of them, rolling his eyes. 

_So much for subtlety_ , Stiles sighed to himself. 

Crossing the kitchen, the Sheriff replaced the menu in its drawer before leaning back against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. “When's the last time you ate? Either of you?” he asked, pinning both younger men with a hard look. 

“How'd that lead pan out?” Stiles asked, hoping to distract his father from a lecture about them taking care of themselves, and how just because they were werewolves didn't mean that they no longer needed to worry about sleeping and eating, keeping themselves healthy.

John was already shaking his head, admitting defeat and allowing the change of subject. “Parrish is still on it, but we haven't got much of anything yet.”

“Malia and Kira tracked their scent from the cabins to a motel outside our border, but they lost it.” Derek informed him, reciting the information from what appeared to be a text message on his phone before he tucked back into his pocket.

“We don't actually believe they're gone, though, right?” Stiles balked. “I mean, what are the chances that they're giving up that easily? If Carrick has as much riding on this as Lochlann and Argent say? There is no way in Hell he pulled his men out of BH. Especially when the pack has already killed one of them.”

“We don't think so, either.” the Sheriff agreed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Unfortunately, until they make another move or one of the pack picks up their scent again, we don't have a lot to go on.”

“Everyone is on high alert.” Derek assured, wrapping a hand around one of Stiles' ankles where it rested in his lap. “Scott doesn't want anyone out looking for the Kearney's until tomorrow, after we've all had a chance to rest and regroup.”

Stiles dragged a hand through his hair, inactivity making him antsy. “I just feel like we should be doing something.” he sighed.

“You are. I know it doesn't seem like much, but taking a little time to recharge is just as important as anything else you could be doing right now.” John gave him a sympathetic smile. “You're no use to anyone if you're dead on your feet, kid. Rest up tonight and tomorrow we'll hit the ground running.”

Stiles nodded absently, yawning again as he settled more comfortably in his chair. “Shower's free.” he noted, nudging Derek's belly with his foot. “Better get cleaned up before dinner gets here.”

“Oh, right. I mean, if you don't mind.” Derek agreed, casting a sideways glance at the Sheriff who was watching them with barely concealed amusement, his gaze seeing more than Derek was strictly comfortable with.

Stiles snorted. “Since when is mi casa not su casa, dude? What, you don't mind hiding out here when you're on the run from _my dad_ , but a shower and a change of clothes is asking too much?”

A smile tilted up one side of Derek's mouth at the same moment the Sheriff said, “I'm sorry, would someone please elaborate on the whole 'hiding out while on the run' thing?”

 

*

 

The three of them had just finished eating when Parrish called, needing the Sheriff back at the station. Stiles didn't bother protesting the extra shift, knowing full well his father would work three or four days without sleep if he needed to, if the town needed him to. Instead, Stiles filled a thermos full of coffee and handed it wordlessly to the Sheriff on his way out the door.

“Behave yourselves, will you?” John asked, shrugging into his uniform jacket as he stepped out onto the porch.

“Why, what ever do you mean, Father?” Stiles snarked, pulling the most innocent face he could manage while his words dripped sarcasm.

The Sheriff rolled his eyes, a fond smile tugging up one side of his mouth. “Yeah right, Kiddo. I haven't bought that act since you were five and flooded the entire upstairs hallway.”

“What part of dinosaur car wash continues to evade you?” Stiles chuckled after his father, who was halfway to climbing into the cruiser. 

“The part where I had to replace more than half a house's worth of carpet.” John called back. 

Stiles felt Derek come up behind him and couldn't resist smiling, unconsciously angling his body toward Derek as he said goodbye to his father. “Be safe, Dad.”

“Goodnight, Sir.” Derek called, leaning in the doorway beside Stiles.

“Always am.” the Sheriff dipped his chin in acknowledgment to Stiles' daily reminder to come home in one piece, sans bullet holes. “See you boys in the morning. Try and get some sleep, will you?” he added, tossing a significant look Derek's way before ducking into the car.

Back inside, Stiles set about cleaning up the kitchen, starting with the dishes sitting in the sink. He was wrist deep in soap suds when he realized what his father said and snorted to himself, shaking his head as he rinsed a cup and set it down.

“What's funny?” Derek asked, glancing over his shoulder from where he was wiping down the table.

Stiles' shrugged, his fingers slipping on the soapy plate he was attempting to wash. “My dad already thinks we're sleeping together.”

“Caught that too, did you?” Derek quirked a brow, a lazy grin curving his mouth. 

Returning his attention to the dishes, Stiles said, “At least we know he won't shoot you.”

“With wolfsbane, anyway. I wouldn't discount a regular bullet just yet.” Derek rebutted, tossing a wad of paper towels into the garbage can. “I'm going to call Boyd, check on Isaac.” he informed Stiles as he headed into the dining room.

Stiles nodded his understanding, rinsing the last plate and propping it up in the dish drain. After wiping down the counters, Stiles went into the living room and plopped down on the couch, picking up the remote to flick through the program guide in search of something worth watching. He'd just settled on old reruns of Friends when Derek came in, carrying with him the renewed scent of worry.

“How is he?” Stiles questioned, rolling his head to look at Derek as he sat beside him.

“Boyd said he seems restless, but he's still out.” Derek was frowning, a deep ridge forming between his brows as he stared down into his empty hands. 

Stiles slid sideways on the cushions and tucked himself into Derek's side, propping one arm against the back of the couch so he could card his fingers through Derek's hair. Eyes slipping closed, Derek leaned into the touch, let it ground him. 

“We'll go first thing in the morning.” Stiles promised, his voice soothing as his fingertips gentled their way across Derek' scalp and he rested his cheek in the slope of Derek's shoulder. “Stop and grab breakfast for the pack, and sit with him until he wakes up. Okay?”

Derek turned his head just enough that he could press a kiss to the top of Stiles' head. “Okay.” he agreed, inhaling deeply and letting himself soak in Stiles' scent. “You know...”

When Derek hesitated, the words seeming to lodge somewhere in his throat, Stiles nudged him with his chin, lifting his head so he could look up at Derek. “Know what?” he encouraged.

“I don't think I would have gotten through all of this shit with Isaac if it weren't for you.” Derek admitted softly, almost shyly, his eyes open and unguarded.

Stiles made a scoffing sound, abrasive to cover the warmth unfurling inside him to see such an expression on Derek's normally closed-off face. “You mean if you didn't have me to worry about.”

“No.” Derek was already shaking his head, slipping one hand around the outside of Stiles' thigh and tugging until both of his legs were draped across Derek's lap. “It's more than that, Stiles. Yeah, looking out for you gave me something else to focus on, but... Just knowing that you were there, that all I had to do was reach out and touch you, kept me together. I know part of it is because you're my anchor, but it's mostly because you're you.”

“Do you really believe that?” Stiles asked, scraping his teeth over his bottom lip, twisting a few strands of Derek's hair between his fingertips. “You don't think that me being your anchor effects the rest of it?”

“Like what?” Derek queried, leaning away so that Stiles' chin slipped out of the indent of his clavicle and they could look each other in the eye, his arms falling into his lap between them. 

Stiles, feeling absurdly exposed under the intense gaze, shifted to try and pull away but Derek's fingers at his chin stopped him. 

“Are you seriously worried that the anchor thing effects how we feel about each other? It doesn't work like that, Stiles.” Derek explained softly, his eyes warm and earnest. “My mother used to say that an anchor is something you believe in more than you believe in yourself. For me, that's you.”

“You said it yourself, though.” Stiles fidgeted with the hem of his t-shirt, twisting it between and around his fingers. “It doesn't make sense for me to anchor you when I'm usually the one that sets you off.”

“Sure, you drive me nuts.” Derek admitted, smiling gently as he rubbed his thumb across Stiles' bottom lip, soothing the swollen skin out from between his teeth. “But, that's not always a bad thing. You wouldn't get to me as much as you do if I didn't care, didn't feel something for you. You anchor me because you make me feel human, Stiles, because you remind that I am. And because I trust that you will always see the human, as well as the wolf, and accept them both equally. A tether is built from emotions, from the connection those emotions create. We anchor one another because we care about each other, Stiles, not the other way around.”

Stiles' eyes snapped back to Derek's face, his brows lifted in surprise. “Wait, you knew?!” he asked, stomach twisting uncomfortably, nerves making his skin tingle. 

Chuckling quietly, Derek shrugged. “I guessed as much at the clinic.” he informed Stiles. “I could see you struggling with the wolf and losing, so I took a chance.”

Stiles let that sink in, remembered the way Derek put himself in his line of sight, made sure Stiles couldn't see or smell anything but him. It made sense that Derek was trying to anchor him, using himself as a catalyst even if he wasn't positive it would work. They hadn't made any declarations by then, not really. Derek had no way of knowing for sure that he could tether Stiles in that moment, had taken a pretty significant risk putting himself in the line of fire of a newbie werewolf with control issues.

“How long have you known?” Derek asked, curious but not at all judgmental as he pulled Stiles out of his thoughts. 

Stiles cast his eyes down as though desperately entranced by the way his legs rested across Derek's lap. “A while.” he admitted guiltily, glad that Derek didn't seem angry but feeling slightly ashamed that he'd hid something so important from someone who trusted him so implicitly. “Since before you came back.”

Derek considered that, let the information roll around inside his head. “It's not all that uncommon for wolves to act as anchors for their...” he trailed off, unsure how to finish that particular thought. The word Mate dangled from the tip of his tongue, heavy and meaningful, but he was worried how Stiles might react to a label of that magnitude. 

“Yeah, I know. Our pack kind of proves that theory.” Stiles sighed and let his body fall back against the cushions below him, sprawled out horizontally across the couch. “I have to admit, though, I was worried. I mean, I've always been attracted to you, and there's always been a part of me that wondered if maybe we could be more than what we were... But then I turned, and it was like everything got so much more intense. I was afraid that it was my wolf more than it was me.”

“You worry too much.” Derek told him, spreading a palm wide across Stiles' thigh, smoothing it up toward his hip.

Stiles laughed hollowly, his lungs going tight in anticipation as Derek's hand moved up, sliding beneath his t-shirt to skim up the gentle curve of his side. “You, surprising as it might be, are not the first person to tell me that.”

Derek moved out from under Stiles' legs, kneeling between them to crawl, predatory and breathtaking, up his body, hovering above him. Stiles let his legs fall open barely wide enough for Derek to fit between, bent at the knee so they dug into Derek's sides, a solid affirmation that he was there, that Stiles got to have this, have Derek like this.

“Are you still worried, Stiles?” Derek asked throatily, both forearms propped beside Stiles' head to hold himself up, their faces so close together their noses almost brushed. “Because I can tell you again.”

Stiles, chest heaving slightly as his heart pounded in his throat, nodded fervently, unable to tear his eyes away from the overwhelming chasm of Derek's eyes above him. “Tell me again.” he croaked.

Derek's smile was slow and wolfish, his eyes glinting sharply in the low light from the lamp beside the sofa. He put all of his weight on one arm, used the other to drag a hand down Stiles' side, too slow and not nearly heavy enough. He curled a hand around Stiles' hip and dragged him up, his ass fitted into the cradle of Derek's lap. 

Fingers skating down Stiles' thigh, Derek leaned in, so near that his breath warmed Stiles' skin, and said, “I have feelings for you, Stiles. Feelings that have nothing to do with you being my anchor, or me being yours. Feelings that make me wonder how I ever survived this long without being able to touch you like this.” He punctuated that by pushing his hand into the space where the round globes of Stiles' ass pressed into his lap, palming one of Stiles' cheeks through his sweatpants. In the same moment, Derek rolled his pelvis forward, rocking into the spread of Stiles' thighs, pulling a low groan from Stiles' lips. 

Stiles' stomach flipped over, heat rippling across his skin as he arched into Derek's body, hard and scorching above him. “Me too.” he babbled, straining into Derek's touch as it moved down his thigh, hooking behind his knee where it was pressed into Derek's ribs. “Have feelings. Extremely intense feelings. All the feelings, okay? Jesus, Derek, please.”

Derek laughed low in his chest as he lowered his head and dragged his nose along the side of Stiles' neck, inhaling deeply as he went. “All the things you've learned over the last couple of years and patience wasn't among any of those lessons.” he tsked, pressing an unhurried, open-mouthed kiss to Stiles' jugular. 

He was teasing, trying to give himself a moment to revel in Stiles' words, to let the honesty in them wash over him. Stiles had feelings for him. Feelings that were more than lust for his body, feelings that had nothing to do with a desire to use him for his own nefarious purposes. Stiles cared about Derek, maybe even loved him a little, wanted him and trusted him. Stiles knew Derek, knew every deep dark secret he'd ever tried to hide, tried to run from, and yet saw something in Derek that was worth caring about, worth maybe falling for. 

“Patience is overrated.” Stiles sniped, hands persistent and searching as they moved over Derek's back, dragged Derek out of his own head and into the present. “I'm tired of waiting.” Stiles growled, digging his hands into Derek's hair to pull him back, meeting his gaze with stormy, glazed over eyes. “Aren't you?”

In lieu of an answer, Derek dove down and crushed Stiles' lips with his own, practically inhaling him in his urgency. Stiles surged up to meet him, fingers wrapped tight at the nape of Derek's neck, thighs clenched around his sides. The kiss was near frantic, nothing like the slower, lingering kiss they'd shared earlier. This one was a clash of teeth and tongues, all gasping breaths and desperation. They devoured one another with lips and hands, a push and pull of venturesome touches and furious caresses, bodies writhing against one another, the sweet burn of friction making Derek dizzy and Stiles whimper. 

Stiles fought to free himself from the trappings of his t-shirt without breaking the kiss, but gave up when his shirt snagged around his chin. With a frustrated growl, he ripped the shirt off and grabbed for the hem of Derek's, tugging it up and away more viciously than necessary.

Rather than letting Stiles pull him back in, Derek bent at the waist and rasped his stubble through the shallow dip between Stiles' pecs, his tongue sweeping out to soothe the reddened skin while Stiles wriggled about below him, his long and skillful fingers scrabbling at Derek's hair, his neck and shoulders, any part of Derek he could reach. 

Chin scraping deliciously at the sensitive skin of Stiles' abdomen, Derek stilled, a faint sheen of silver catching his attention. “What's this?” he asked concernedly, brushing the pad of his thumb over the stretch of skin that extended from just below Stiles' ribcage all the way down to his left hip, taking up most of the left side of his stomach. 

Stiles shivered, glancing down to watch Derek's hand smooth over his belly, the scar tissue practically glowing against the normal pale complexion of the rest of his stomach and the slightly darker shade of Derek's skin. “It's, uh... It's where the Catoblepas impaled me.” he said, swallowing thickly as he watched Derek's fingertips trace the jagged, twisted outline of the mark, the edges where Stiles' skin had knit itself back together.

“I thought werewolves didn't scar.” Derek muttered, slightly awed, chest aching with the knowledge of how painful the injury must have been, how much Stiles must have suffered.

Derek's hand, even spread as wide as it could go, didn't cover the whole of the scar. Silver skin still peeked out from between his fingers, encircled his hand with a thick, gnarled, shimmering border. 

Stiles' eyes pricked with heat, emotions welling up and threatening to drown him in their depths. Derek was being so tender with him, so careful. It made Stiles feel precious, protected in a way he hadn't ever felt. Combined with memories from the day he all but died, Stiles struggled to tread water as wave after wave of tangled emotions crashed around him.

“Yeah, not typically.” Stiles agreed in a choked voice, grinding the heels of his palms against his eyelids in an effort to force away the burn. “Deaton thinks it's because the damage was so extensive, and because I was still human when it happened.” 

Thumbing at the bottom-most bump of Stiles' ribs, Derek marveled at the satin smooth skin. The scar wasn't raised, wasn't embossed or textured in any real way. It was as though someone had simply spilled metallic paint over one half of Stiles' belly and done an awful job of cleaning it up.

Stiles' hand wrapping around Derek's wrist startled him, so intently had he been committing the scar to memory. 

“Does it bother you?” Stiles asked, his tone unsure and his scent interwoven with something that made Derek's gums itch, made his wolf whine and had his instinct to protect rising up. “I know it's a little weird, but I think it's actually kind of pretty. If it makes you uncomf-”

“No.” Derek denied quickly, leaning forward to press his lips to the top edge of the scar. “It's a part of you, Stiles.” he murmured into Stiles' stomach, warm vibrations humming along the skin beneath his lips. “There is no part of you I'll ever want you to hide from me.”

Stiles wanted to laugh, wanted to call Derek out for being sappy and romantic, but he couldn't seem to find the breath in his lungs to do so. The moment, this single, solitary moment in time, felt raw and significant, too perfect and too intense to interrupt with sarcasm or emotionally stunted quips.

Derek didn't seem to mind Stiles' silence, just continued to decorate Stiles' belly with kisses that felt like brands, another layer of beautiful scarring that marked Stiles' skin, embellished his hide. Derek nuzzled his nose into the dip of Stiles' hip, breathed in and out in deep, shuddering breaths as he shuffled backward on his knees and let his tongue slip out to taste the scar.

“Derek.” Stiles breathed, the sound high and surprised as his spine bowed and his shoulders pressed into the cushions beneath him. Derek's tongue moved to trace achingly slow spirals around Stiles' navel until a garbled whine tore from his throat. 

Smirking, Derek licked a searing stripe along the band of Stiles' sweats, gliding up the dark line of his treasure trail and then back down, teeth occasionally scraping at Stiles' skin. Derek hooked his fingers into the band and pulled both Stiles' briefs and his sweats down at once, biting and sucking at each new stretch of skin he uncovered. Stiles lifted his hips to facilitate it, settling back down when Derek caught the band of his pants under his balls, exposing the rigid length of his throbbing cock, flushed red and curving proudly up toward his belly.

Derek lifted his eyes to Stiles' face, watching his heavily-lidded gaze slide in and out of focus and his lips part on a ragged breath, his eyes glued to where Derek's tongue flicked out to lap away the pearly bead of pre-come leaking from Stiles' swollen head. Stiles flung his arms above his head, using the couch's arm as leverage to push himself closer, hips bucking up into the burning heat of Derek's mouth as it teased at his crown.

“Fuck.” Stiles gasped, shuddering violently at the slick slide of Derek's lips down his length as his cock sank into Derek's throat. “Your mouth is ridiculous.”

Derek hummed, sending neon sparks of sensation coursing over Stiles' skin and making his cock pulse. Derek's tongue swirled around Stiles' dripping head and he moaned low and rough as another wave of Stiles' flavor exploded over his taste buds. Wrapping one hand around Stiles' cock, slick with his own saliva, Derek gave a few firm pumps while his lips closed tight around the head and his cheeks caved in around it.

One of Stiles' hands plunged into Derek's hair, fingers fitting flawlessly to the shape of his skull as he rocked up into Derek's mouth. “God, yes. Just like that.” Stiles crooned, guiding Derek into an even tempo, his weeping head bumping the back of Derek's throat with every careful thrust. 

Using one hand to press down hard against his own achingly rigid cock, Derek sucked Stiles off with enthusiasm, drawing him deep into his throat and swallowing around him, rolling and swirling his tongue along the bottom of Stiles' shaft. Stiles' hips moved in shallow thrusts, never giving Derek more than he could take even as his fingers gripped Derek's skull tighter.

It wasn't long before Stiles' thrust began to stutter, his moans going hoarse and tight. “I'm close, Der.” he warned, tugging roughly on Derek's hair to pull him off. 

Derek reached for Stiles' hand, guided it from his hair to the back of his neck and pressed down. Stiles cursed in a strangled groan but took the hint, pushing Derek down on his cock as he shoved up. Derek's answering moan vibrated deep in Stiles' belly, pulled his balls in tight to his body. 

Stiles' orgasm ripped through him like a lightning bolt across a midnight sky, bright and electric. 

“Fuck!” he shouted, fingers gripping hard to Derek's neck as he came, spilling down Derek's throat in salty, bitter spurts, his eyes clenching shut as his body bowed forward.

Derek drank down every drop, humming with satisfaction when Stiles went limp beneath him, his back against the sofa cushions once more. He licked every trace of come from Stiles' skin, tonguing his wet slit to chase the taste before he pulled off with a cocky smirk.

Stiles chuckled breathlessly, running one hand through Derek's mussed hair. “Go ahead and gloat, Big Bad.” he grinned affectionately. “You deserve it.”

“ _We_ deserve it.” Derek growled, shifting smoothly up Stiles' body to catch his lips in a deep, head-spinning kiss, letting Stiles taste himself on Derek's tongue. “We deserve to acknowledge this, Stiles. We got here. After all the bullshit, all the tragedy and loss and pain... We still got here.”

“Yeah.” Stiles' smile went soft and understanding, his mind running through all the ways they'd had to fight to get to a place where they were possible, a place where they could have this, have each other. “Yeah, we did.”

Derek pressed another kiss to Stiles' lips and then pushed himself up from the couch, holding a hand out.

“Where are we going?” Stiles pouted, reluctantly letting Derek pull him to his feet so he could pull up his sweats and straighten them around his hips. “I though we liked it here.”

“We do.” Derek grinned, leading Stiles toward the hall. “But I think we'll like it even more upstairs.”


	11. Never Been This Way Before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took me forever to get just right, but I think I'm finally satisfied with how it turned out. I hope you guys agree!

Stiles let Derek pull him into his bedroom, watching the subtle shift of muscles beneath Derek's skin, the play of ink between his shoulder blades with every ripple of muscle, every shift and pull. Stiles could smell his own nerves, could taste the tang of excited apprehension on the air. He had no doubt that Derek could smell it too, which only served to intensify the feeling.

Being nervous was stupid, Stiles told himself. This was Derek for Christ's sake. He trusted Derek with his life. Trusting him with this, with his body and his heart, seemed like a natural progression, an organic extension of their past and a perfect place to start their future.

A blow job on the couch was one thing, but sex in his childhood bed meant something else entirely, something bigger. Maybe that's what had Stiles shaken, what made his stomach clench and flutter with the realization of just how colossal this whole thing truly was, how much was riding on them doing this right. 

Sex with Derek meant more than just sex, more than just two people coming together in a moment of passion. Sleeping with Derek, knowing how they felt about one another, how their wolves felt, it simply meant _more_. 

Crossing that last line, breaking down that final boundary was irreversible, something that they couldn't take back. Stiles knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt and with every fiber of his being, falling into bed with Derek was a decision that would change the course of the rest of their lives. Once they made that choice, chose to come together instead of falling apart, they'd belong to one another in a way they'd never belonged to anyone else, a way they never would.

Stiles felt like he was standing on the edge of a precipice, balanced on a razor edge where leaping one way would guarantee a safe landing and the other promised to be chaotic and possibly disastrous, could tear him into tiny, jagged pieces while simultaneously being the best fucking decision he'd ever made.

As if sensing the storm raging inside him, Derek turned in the middle of Stiles' bedroom floor, his eyes patient and so gentle it made Stiles' nerves smooth out and his heartbeat spike in the same span of a mere second. 

“Hey.” Derek whispered, stepping into Stiles' space and lifting the hand not twined with his fingers to one blotchy pink cheek, his naked chest emanating heat that drew Stiles in, made him want to roll around in it. “We don't have to do this right now, not if you're not ready. If you just want to crawl into bed and sleep, that's fine with me, Stiles.”

“No.” Stiles denied, leaning into the warm cup of Derek's hand, closing his eyes and taking a deep, steadying breath. “I want to.” he murmured, opening vulnerable whiskey eyes to meet Derek's gaze. “I want you so bad it physically hurts, Derek. I'm just...” he trailed off, turning his head to push his nose into Derek's palm.

“Nervous.” Derek supplied, disentangling their fingers to reach for Stiles' hip, sliding around his back to pull him forward, their bodies fitting together seamlessly. 

Nodding, Stiles blew out a shaky breath and leaned his weight into Derek's body, circling Derek's waist with his arms and hooking his chin over his shoulder. “Sleeping with someone has never felt like such an existential choice before.” he complained halfheartedly.

Derek smiled, fingers trailing gently up and down the center of Stiles' back. “Whatever happens, tonight or any other night,” he promised, his voice sure and heartbeat steady, “I'm not going anywhere, Stiles. You and I will always be you and I. Got it?”

A soft smile curled one side of Stiles' mouth. “Promise?” he asked, hoping it didn't sound as needy aloud as it did inside his head.

“Promise.” Derek's grin was obvious in his tone, the arm around Stiles' shoulders squeezing as if to solidify his word.

A long moment of quiet stretched between them; Stiles trying to smooth over the frayed edges of his anxiety while Derek waited patiently, his fingers massaging Stiles' nape with reassuring weight.

“I've never been with a guy.” Stiles admitted softly into the still, not-so-silence of his darkened bedroom, aware that he'd already made his choice, probably made it a lifetime before. “I've thought about it, even fingered myself open a few times. But, actual sex with another guy seems like something that's totally different in practice.”

Derek huffed a small laugh, sliding a hand up into Stiles' hair even as his body flooded with heat. “We'll go as slow as you want to.” he soothed, kneading Stiles' scalp gently as he pressed a kiss behind his ear. “Whatever you want, all you have to do is tell me, okay?”

Stiles and his wolf both shivered as warmth bloomed in their belly, a thousand and one images flickering through Stiles' mind. He saw Derek on his knees, face buried in Stiles' ass while his tongue explored as thoroughly as one could manage. Derek fingering him open, slow and leisurely, teasing Stiles with touches too gentle to get him off. Stiles riding Derek's cock with abandon, bouncing in his lap with his head thrown back and Derek's teeth buried in his throat...

“Anything?” Stiles ventured curiously, shifting his pelvis against Derek's hip so that his quickly hardening cock was rubbing at the cut of Derek's hip and thigh. 

Derek's fingers clenched at Stiles' waist, not to still his movements but simply to hold on while all the blood in his body rushed south and his head swam with arousal, both his own and the heady scent of Stiles' as it swirled around them. 

“Qualifications are for the weak.” Derek said, his voice going low and rough as Stiles' hands migrated down to the high roundness of Derek's ass, fingers exploring with curious but determined touches.

Stiles laughed, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “What if I wanted to cuff you to the bed and rim you 'til you cried?” he questioned, the tips of his fingers dipping beneath the waist of Derek's track pants to tease at the very top of the cleft between his cheeks. 

Breath hitching, Derek unconsciously rolled his hips back into Stiles' loose grip, a low rumble vibrating in his throat. “You got cuffs?” he asked, not caring one way or the other if he was calling a bluff or granting permission.

A high whine escaped Stiles' lips and his pelvis jerked forward, his cock jabbing Derek in the belly “Fucking Christ, Derek.” Stiles said, nails biting into Derek's skin. “Later, I swear to God we're gonna do that.” he vowed breathlessly before surging forward to crush Derek's lips with his own.

Like a switch flipping, their tongues met, slow and careful shifting quickly into frantic and demanding. Derek hauled Stiles up by his ass, giving him no choice but to wrap his legs around Derek's waist. In a quick blur of movement Derek was dropping Stiles on the bed and climbing over him, fusing their mouths together and scooping the growl right off Stiles' tongue while his body rolled sinuously down into the eager cradle of Stiles' parted thighs.

Derek couldn't be sure who actually managed to divest them both of their pants but they were somehow both gloriously naked a few beats later and Derek found he didn't care who made it happen so long as there was no longer any barriers between Stiles' hands and his skin. 

Downstairs, Stiles had been pliable and simply let Derek work his body however he saw fit. Here, now, Stiles was a hurricane trapped inside his own skin, all frenetic energy and constant, churning motion. His hands tugged and shoved at every stretch of skin they could reach, nails scratching at the sharp wings of Derek's shoulder blades, down the tight cords of his back, digging into the globes of his ass and pushing him closer as Stiles ground upward. His teeth and tongue explored Derek's clavicle, sharp and grounding as he moved to Derek's throat, clamped his teeth into the fragile skin until Derek growled and his wolf echoed the sound.

“Stiles.” Derek moaned, ragged and sandpaper rough, his hands spread wide and pinning Stiles' hips to the bed. “Tell me. Fuck, I need to hear you say it.”

Stiles whimpered, his head filled with hazy lust while his heart beat a chaotic rhythm, his skin feeling too hot, his body burning up from the inside out. “Please, Der.” he all but begged, continuing to roll his pelvis up into Derek's hands, gasping and choking when their cocks finally, blissfully slid against each other. “Please. I want you to fuck me. I need it, Derek.”

Stiles couldn't have cared less that he was pleading, that his voice crackled and broke with desperation. His body was lit up brighter than the sun, even the barest brush of Derek's skin against his feeling like a shockwave. Stiles' body was quick to respond, his nerves raw and sensitive when they sparked and caught fire, Derek's gentlest touch triggering an earthquake somewhere deep in Stiles' chest. 

Growling, eyes flashing brilliantly in the dark, Derek kissed Stiles hard, ignoring the copper taste of blood where his slightly-too-sharp teeth cut the inside of his bottom lip. He tore himself away, panting into the nearly nonexistent space between them while he strived for control.

“Up on your knees.” he commanded hoarsely. 

Stiles scrambled to comply when Derek lifted his body off of him, flipping onto his belly and pulling his knees up so that his ass was thrust high. Derek groaned, exerting a herculean effort in order to stop himself from simply impaling Stiles on his cock then and there, saying fuck it to working him open and just plunging into his tight little hole without a second thought. Shaking his head to wipe away that image, Derek forced himself to reach for the nightstand, following his nose to find the bottle of lube Stiles kept tucked inside.

Over his shoulder he caught Stiles' eye and held up a condom, quirking one brow in question. Stiles didn't even pause to consider it, simply shook his head and then wagged his ass invitingly, grinning devilishly, his eyes bright and sparkling even in the dark.

Derek's wolf whined, the sound echoing around the inside of his head as he crawled back across the bed and positioned himself between Stiles' legs, dropping the bottle of slick beside them on the mattress. 

“I wish you could see yourself right now.” Derek rumbled, one hand grasping Stiles by the hips to angle his ass up higher while the other planted between his shoulders and pushed him down to the mattress. “See how fucking gorgeous you look like this, how perfect.” he praised, thumbs hooking into the valley between Stiles' cheeks, easing them apart so he could get his eyes on the puckered hole begging for his attention.

Stiles whimpered again, pitched high and needy as a bright flush spread across the back of his neck, down between his shoulders to drip color all along the line of his spine. 

Derek brushed the dry pad of one thumb over Stiles' asshole, pressing gently before easing back. “Can I put my tongue here, Stiles?” he asked, his cock jumping eagerly at the idea. “Do you want me to work you open with my mouth? Fuck you with my tongue before I stuff you full of my cock?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Derek.” Stiles didn't care that his voice came out reedy and pathetically whiny. He didn't care how frantic and needful he sounded, how brazenly he presented his backside for Derek. All he cared about was the feeling of Derek's hands on him, touching him in ways he'd only ever been touched by his own hand, making his skin hum and burn.

“Say it.” Derek prodded, licking his thumb and then pressing it back to the knotted ring of flesh, swirling it gently. 

“Yes!” Stiles nearly shouted, rocking back into the slippery rub of Derek's touch. “I want you to, okay? Just fucking do it.”

Derek growled deep at the demand in Stiles' tone, buzzing tendrils of pure lust unwinding in his belly. He gave Stiles a sharp slap, his palm searing it's print into one mound of flesh and then soothing it away. The startled yip Stiles let out was darkly pleasing, had Derek's gut clenching and his heavy cock twitching interestedly between his legs.

“Asshole.” Stiles gasped out, breath stuttering in his lungs and getting stuck in his throat when he felt Derek shift around behind him, immediately followed by the hot velvet glide of a tongue as it laved at his hole.

Derek made a deep humming sound that carried up Stiles' vertebrae like ivy vines, winding and twisting around his nerves. He mewled and cried out, his back bowing sharply when Derek pushed the very tip of his tongue into Stiles' body, licking wetly at his walls and slithering back out to circle his rim again. 

Derek took his time, reminding himself over and over again that this was Stiles first time like this, that he had to make it good, had to make sure it hurt as little as possible. It didn't matter that Stiles was a wolf now, that he could heal. Derek didn't want to cause him any more pain than necessary. He ignored the begging whimpers and choked off demands tripping from Stiles' lips, gripped him tight by the hips and held him still while he swirled and rolled his tongue, lapping zealously at Stiles' puckered hole.

By the time Derek finally pushed one fingertip past the wrinkled skin of Stiles' rim, it was loose and drenched, pliable and receptive to Derek's seeking digit. 

“Holy God.” Stiles moaned, rocking up to take the finger in deeper. “More.” he begged, spreading his legs wider to gain more leverage. 

Derek obliged, delving deeper and twirling his finger against the satin smooth heat of Stiles' insides. “Do you like that, Stiles?” he asked, giving shallow thrusts inside him. “Do you like having me, any part of me, inside you?”

“Yes.” Stiles nodded furiously against the pillow trapped between his face and the bed. “I love it, Derek. _Please_.”

The second finger slipped in with only a bit of resistance, pushed right in beside the first, both of them crooked and unerringly finding Stiles' prostate. His body shook, overwhelmed with sensation and yet needing so much more. Breathing got more and more difficult with every push, every delicious drag of Derek's fingers in his ass. Derek murmured gentle words into his skin, mouthing at Stiles' cheeks, tonguing around the skin stretched taunt where his fingers disappeared inside Stiles.

“Do you want three?” he asked, already flipping the cap on the lube, unable to smell even the plasticy scent of it over the want and need pouring off of Stiles in spectacular clouds.

“I wanted three ten minutes ago, Derek.” Stiles growled, shoving back hard on Derek's hand, shivering a little at the cold lube he could feel drizzling into his crack. 

Derek chuckled richly, smoothing the flat of his free hand up the center of Stiles' back to grip his hair. He yanked, pulling Stiles head back as he draped himself all across his back, stretching Stiles open with three fingers, thrusting them more roughly than he had since they started.

Stiles keened, spine snapping into a hard curve as he arched into the penetration, his body clenching tight around Derek's fingers. His rim burned a little, nothing he couldn't handle but more than it ever had whenever he'd done this to himself. 

Derek, scenting pain on the air, tried to gentle his touch but Stiles snarled his objection.

“I'm fine.” he grit out through partially extended fangs, proving his point by rolling his pelvis up and back, his walls clutching at the fingers inside him. “Don't stop. If you stop I swear to God I will rip your throat out.”

Eyes glowing instinctually in response to Stiles' flashing Gold, Derek shoved his fingers into Stiles harder and bit down ruthlessly at the slope of his neck. Gasping and whining, Stiles tipped his head to one side, baring his throat submissively.

“Bastard.” he panted, holding the position despite the epithet, bucking on Derek's fingers while they moved brutally inside him. 

Derek was painfully hard, every molecule in his body straining to be inside Stiles, his wolf alternating between whines and snarls, urging Derek to take, to claim, to mark Stiles as theirs. He'd held back for fear of hurting Stiles, his mind still struggling to recognize Stiles as a wolf instead of the fragile human boy he'd left behind. He didn't want to scent pain on the air, clouding up Stiles' scent and covering the undiluted lust pouring out of his skin. 

But when Derek's iron grip on his wolf's reigns slipped, when he gave into his instincts for a fraction of a second and buried his teeth in Stiles' neck, Stiles' scent hadn't gone murky with hurt. It hadn't rippled with the sour sting of pain, nor had Stiles so much as flinched. Instead, the aura of scent around Stiles went smoky and rich with pleasure, his pulse kicking up excitedly as he moaned and shoved his ass up higher, the hot flush of arousal flashing through him so savagely Derek felt it pulse along his skin. 

Pleasure-pain apparently did it for Stiles, a fact that Derek was more than willing to explore for both of their benefit. Reminding himself for the umpteenth time that Stiles was a werewolf, was no longer human and breakable, Derek withdrew his fingers from his body without warning and flipped Stiles over, startling a high-pitched gasp out of him.

“Wha-” Stiles tried to ask, only to stutter off into a rumbling moan when Derek's cock replaced his fingers, sinking in and splitting Stiles apart without preamble.

Stiles felt like he was coming apart at the seams as his body stretched around Derek's considerable thickness. It hurt, a deep, visceral ache that seared through him and made his eyes water, but it was good, so fucking good Stiles never wanted it to end. The flare of pain faded quickly, morphed into pleasure that poured through him like liquid gold, coating his insides with delightful heat.

Derek grunted as he bottomed out, his thighs flush to Stiles' ass and his face buried in the hollow of Stiles' throat.

A soft gust of air puffed across Derek's shoulders, a gentle _“Oh.”_ carried on an awe filled breath.

He didn't need to ask, didn't need Stiles to tell him. Deep inside, in a place Derek never even knew existed, he felt it. He felt gravity shift around them, felt the Earth shudder with the weight of it. It was different, so devastatingly different from anything he'd ever felt. It was bigger, more intense than anything either of them had ever experienced. It was coming home and falling in love, it was finding peace and letting go and an endless free fall into forever. It was a volcanic eruption, a seismic event, a full blown tsunami that ravaged the land and laid everything to waste.

Being inside Stiles... It was finding the place where he belonged, the person he'd belonged with all along. It was honesty and passion and trust and _Stiles_ ; Everything Derek wanted but hadn't known he needed, all wrapped up into one world shattering package.

Guided by nothing but primal instincts, his coherency lost in the push of his wolf beneath his skin and the revelations taking place in every cell in his body, Derek began to move. Any intention he had to take this slowly, to draw it out and make it last, deserted him with the first torturously perfect drag of Stiles' walls around his cock. It felt like Stiles' body simply refused to release him, his clutching heat clamping down around Derek's shaft and drawing him back in.

Stiles' vocabulary was reduced to broken fragments of fumbled vulgarities and Derek's name, his entire form quivering with the release building deep within his core. Every snap of Derek's hips punched a shredded, fractured sound from somewhere in Stiles' throat. He arced into each punishing thrust, their bodies crashing together with enough force to knock the headboard against the wall with a sound like a whip crack. 

Derek's mouth worked over Stiles' neck and shoulders, his tongue darting out to lave away crimson beads wherever his fangs caught and tore the skin, his fingers gripping Stiles' thighs, pulling them up and apart so hard that bruises formed and healed between thrusts. 

Stiles' own claws were extended, raking deep lines into the sweat slicked expanse of Derek's back. His thighs clenched Derek around the ribs, heels digging harshly into the high roundness of Derek's flexing ass.

A deep baritone rumble was building in Derek's chest as they writhed together, their skin slipping and sliding, the heat between them building to a fever pitch.

“Harder.” Stiles managed to gasp out, the fire in his bloodstream igniting the whiskey in his eyes until the only visible ring of color burned Gold. “Derek, I need-”

Derek snarled and pistoned his cock into Stiles with as much power behind it as he was capable, forcing Stiles higher up on the mattress with his momentum and ripping a strangled moan from his lips.

“Yes. Fuck.” Stiles cried through bared fangs, fingers scrabbling at Derek's back as he bucked up into his unrestrained thrusts, chasing the orgasm he could feel coiled tightly in his belly.

“Come, Stiles.” Derek said, the command falling from his lips on a growl he couldn't even hope to control. “I've got you, just let go. Wanna feel it.” 

Stiles shuddered, a gravely whimper tearing up his throat. He couldn't reach between them to stroke himself off, the claws on his fingers making that more dangerous that it was worth. Instead, he made it work with the friction of his leaking head against Derek's abs, the shift and roll of their bodies together almost enough. 

“I can't-” he choked on the words, Derek's cock hitting his prostate head on. “Need more.” he begged, clawing into Derek's shoulder blades, holding on while Derek fucked into him with chaotic, desperate thrusts.

Without so much as a moment's thought, Derek pushed himself up, pulling his face out of Stiles' neck so he could tilt his head and bare his throat. 

The sound that clawed its way out of Stiles' chest was inhuman, shattered and destroyed, a wounded sound that echoed through Derek's bones, ricocheted around the inside of his rib cage. “ _Derek_.” 

Stiles' orgasm slammed through him with a ferocity that stole the air from his lungs, shredded him into tatters and left him ruined. His vision went blurry as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through him, coming so hard he striped his own chest with thick, sticky lines as he arched against Derek's chest, his muscles shaking with the force of his release.

Derek's eyes rolled back in his head when Stiles gripped him by the hair and jerked his head to one side, his fangs sinking through Derek's skin like molten lead through ice. Stiles' hole spasmed around Derek's cock, his scorching, velvet walls closing around him, pulling his own orgasm from somewhere near his toes. Derek shot his load buried as deeply as anatomy would allow, filling Stiles' up and marking him from the inside, a fucked-out shout reverberating in the room, mixing beautifully with the tiny whimpers and breathy whines tumbling from Stiles' lips. 

Derek shook his way through it, shuddering ceaselessly as pleasure rippled through him, white hot and seemingly endless. He felt Stiles' teeth slide out of his throat, caught the satisfied gleam in liquescent amber as he licked the last traces of Derek's blood from his, once again, human teeth.

Arms trembling too violently to hold him up, Derek let his weight fall onto Stiles, pinning him to the bed without even bothering to pull out. He sank onto Stiles, face mashed into his throat so he could nose at his skin, mesmerized by the way their scents mingled.

“Holy fucking shit, Batman.” Stiles heaved out, still trying to catch his breath.

Derek snorted, snuffling into Stiles' skin. “I thought you were Batman.” he mumbled lazily, too content to muster the energy to make it a question.

“Shut up and let me bask in the afterglow.” Stiles admonished, swatting limply at Derek's head. “Why did no one tell me werewolf sex was so intense? That should be in a pamphlet or something. I was in no way prepared for that.”

Derek grunted, somehow not at all surprised that Stiles could talk his way through post-coital bliss. “It's not always like that.” he mumbled, dry lips catching on Stiles' skin, drawing a shiver out of him. “Never was before, at least.”

“For me either.” Stiles admitted, fingers carding through Derek's damp hair contemplatively. “Sex as a human was _nothing_ like that.”

Derek hummed noncommittally, though he agreed. In the brief time he'd been human and sharing his bed with Braeden the sex had been good, but it was in no way comparable to what had just happened between him and Stiles. Sure, sex had always been pretty good, but it never felt like the Earth's poles were reversing, the entire universe turning inside out around them. 

“Shit.” Derek could feel Stiles cringe below him, evidently realizing that talking about past sexual experiences while your current one was still inside you was right up there with the very worst of all the terrible ideas. “Sorry. That was stupid. I shouldn't hav-”

“Stiles?” he interrupted, lifting himself up to look down at the gorgeous boy spread out below him, still spread wide around him.

“Yeah?” Stiles grimaced, bracing. 

Derek kissed him, slow and wet, as possessive as it was soothing. “Shut up.” he whispered onto Stiles' tongue, catching his bottom lip between his teeth and biting down gently.

“Right.” Stiles agreed immediately, fingers finding their way back into Derek's hair. “Shutting up.”

Werewolf refractory periods being what they were, not to mention the high they were both riding right then, Derek wasn't at all sure they'd be able to make good on the Sheriff's request that they sleep. Especially when Stiles, little shit that he was, was writhing under Derek, smirking against his lips and rolling his hips down on the rapidly filling cock still buried inside him.


	12. Is This The Calm...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I'm really sorry that this chapter took so long to get out. Last week was a rough one and I didn't get a lot done, to be honest.
> 
> But!
> 
> Here it is :)

“Do you think maybe the Kearney's are waiting for the full moon?” Erica questioned the possibility from her perch on the edge of Deaton's desk, her long, jean clad legs tucked up and crossed beneath her. “They could be hiding out until then, trying to stay under the radar.”

She and Boyd had still been at the clinic, holding vigil by Isaac's side by the time Stiles and Derek arrived, meeting Allison and Scott in the parking lot on the way in. The six of them were crammed into Deaton's office discussing their current situation while Stiles guilt tripped Scott and Allison into at least attempting to eat, all of them listening for even the slightest fluctuation in Isaac's heartbeat in the next room.

“Maybe?” Stiles shrugged, frowning. “They, of all people, should know what a seriously flawed plan that is. I mean, attacking an entire pack on the one night a month when we're at our strongest? It's practically suicide.” he pointed out, flipping distractedly through one of the musty old tomes Deaton kept on his bookshelves, an ancient encyclopedia of mystical flora.

Scott, looking more haggard and exhausted than Stiles had seen him in months, scratched distractedly at his unkempt stubble while Allison dozed lightly with her head in his lap, both of them sprawled out on the couch Deaton had pushed up against one wall. “Yeah, that doesn't make a lot of sense.” he agreed.

“Maybe they're just trying to psych us out.” Boyd supplied from where he was leaning beneath a window, arms crossed over his chest. 

“Mission accomplished.” Stiles muttered to himself, chewing the inside of his bottom lip as he skimmed over an entry on Hellborne, absorbing what he could while simultaneously trying and failing to ignore the new awareness settled beneath his skin.

Stiles had woken up with it, this feeling inside that seemed to coordinate to Derek somehow. It was a phantom feeling, an imprint of Derek's general state that Stiles only recognized as anything at all because it didn't seem to be coming from himself. 

Where his own emotions were in their default state of much too bright and far too intense, the ones that weren't his own, the ones that appeared to be Derek's were placid and content, oddly calming in their absoluteness. 

Along with the apparent ability to now pick up on Derek's overall mood came the nifty ability to feel him like a tangible, physical presence even when they weren't in the same room together. 

It was a surprising knowledge to come across accidentally, having discovered it when he left Derek in line to order breakfast for the pack while he slipped outside to call Parrish, wanting to check on his dad. Stiles was in the parking lot, phone pressed to his ear and back to the door when he felt Derek behind him. He could feel the heat of Derek's body, could almost taste the familiar wild and earthy scent that clung to Derek's skin tighter than the jeans he poured himself into on a daily basis. A slow smile had curled Stiles' lips as he turned, ready with an eye roll and a bit of sass only to find himself completely alone. 

When Derek stepped outside a few moments later their faces held duplicate expressions of awed surprise, telling Stiles that he wasn't alone in this newfound connection. Derek seemed to take it in stride, however, saying only, “My parents said it happens, sometimes.” with a shrug and a pensive but pleased quirk to his lips. 

Stiles decided not to question it for the time being, vowing to go with his tried and true method of not dealing with it until absolutely necessary. 

It wasn't as though he hadn't expected it, honestly. Stiles had seriously done _all the research_ in the first year after Scott was bitten. That research turned up tons of information even Derek hadn't known about, up to and including the mythology of mate bonds. At the time, Stiles was just covering all of their bases, wanting to be as informed as humanly possible in order to prevent Scott from accidentally doing something he wouldn't be able to undo. The idea of Scott unintentionally mating Allison, or something else equally as horrifying, drove Stiles to compile as much werewolf lore as he was capable of getting his hands on.

Thanks to all of the time Stiles spent with his head buried in research, mate bonds weren't an entirely foreign concept. He and Scott had gone through the lore a number of times, discussing at great length the possibility and likelihood of such bonds being a legitimate thing that existed. Scott himself had scoffed at the idea, chalked it up to embellished stories passed down through the generations, tall tales told by emissaries and pack elders in order to scare the younger pack members into keeping it in their pants. Stiles wasn't so sure, but Scott was adamant in his denial. Right up until he'd felt Allison's pain from halfway across the forest when she'd twisted her ankle during a sparing session with Erica. After that, Scott found it much more difficult to brush of the reality of mate bonds.

As it turned out, at least from what Stiles gathered through research and the tidbits of information Deaton shared, mate bonds could be formed one of two ways:

_\- Gradually; Wherein a werewolf and their mate (or in Scott's case, mates) developed a bond through simply being together, being committed and dedicated to one another for a significant amount of time._

**Or**

_\- All at once; Wherein a werewolf and their mate developed a bond through an act of claiming or intent._

Stiles wasn't one hundred percent sure which of the two applied to he and Derek, considering both situations could be somewhat applicable. If he had to venture a guess he'd say that it was probably a whole lot of the former amped up and intensified by the latter, but that was just a highly educated guess.

Leaning against the table Stiles had hauled himself up on, Derek bumped his hip against Stiles' leg where it dangled over the side.

“We'll be ready no matter when they come.” Derek assured calmly, confidently. “Eight werewolves are hard enough to eliminate on their own. Throw in a werecoyote, a kitsune, a phoenix, a banshee, and a pair of hunters, and our odds look pretty good.”

“Seven wolves.” Scott yawned as his hand trailed through Allison's hair. “Six, depending on what kind of shape Isaac's in when he wakes up.”

“Why seven?” Derek asked, brows drawn down in confusion as he ran through the pack members again in his head, trying to figure out if he'd accidentally counted someone twice.

“If the Kearney's attack on the full moon, Stiles doesn't count.” Scott said, eyes closed and face turned up toward the ceiling.

“Hey!” Stiles protested with a squawk even as Derek asked, “What do you mean he doesn't count?”

Opening his eyes to meet Derek's gaze, Scott explained, “Without an anchor, he can't control the shift. Deaton usually sedates him and he spends the night in the vault.”

Stiles glared hard at the book in his lap, cheeks darkening in embarrassment. He knew he shouldn't be embarrassed by his lack of control, not when it wasn't his fault. A wolf without an anchor, especially one as new as Stiles, had no hope of controlling themselves on a full moon. The lunar pull was too strong to resist, the power too tempting to fight against without something to fight for, a reason to hold onto his humanity.

“You've been locking him up?” Derek nearly growled, his tone angry. Just the thought of Stiles trapped away in the vault where Erica, Boyd, and Cora had almost died made Derek's instincts flare to life, his wolf emitting a low, rumbling snarl somewhere deep inside his chest.

“Der.” Stiles interjected, putting a hand on Derek's shoulder to draw his attention away from Scott. “He had no choice, okay? I didn't give him one.”

“But-”

Stiles tilted his head, smiling softly at the concern in Derek's eyes. “I never would have forgiven myself if I hurt someone, Derek. Knocking me out and locking me up was the only option. But,” he turned his attention back to Scott, his smile morphing into something proud, “it isn't anymore.”

Scott's eyes were broadcasting his confusion almost as strongly as his scent. Stiles let him work through it on his own and couldn't help but snort with laughter when Scott finally seemed to comprehend what Stiles was saying.

“You found your anchor?” he asked excitedly, almost dislodging Allison from his lap. “When? Why didn't you tell me?”

“Yes. About a week ago. Because I wasn't ready to deal with it yet.” Stiles answered the questions in the order they'd been asked, ignoring the smug smile Derek aimed at him. 

Erica was grinning at them both, her expression knowing and fond. “Well, it's about fucking time.” she said before rolling her eyes at Scott's furrowed brow. “Oh, for Christ's sake, Scott.”

Scott looked from one face to the next, trying to puzzle out what he was missing that everyone else seemed to understand. Stiles fought to keep his expression neutral, struggling with the laugh dancing in his throat while Derek just grinned at his own feet and Boyd rubbed at his smirk with the palm of his hand in an effort to wipe it away.

“It's Derek, Scott.” Allison sighed, not even bothering to open her eyes. “Derek is his anchor.”

“Oh.” Scott nodded, his eyebrows still knotted and a frown pulling down the corners of his mouth. After another beat his eyes went wider and his mouth fell open, “ _Oh._ ”

Stiles couldn't help it. The laughter in his throat snuck past his lips and out into the room. “Don't sound so shocked, Scottie.” he chuckled, “Even you had to have seen this coming.”

Scott grinned his crooked grin, the stress around his eyes melting into happy crinkles. “I knew there were feelings, but I didn't know it was like _that_.”

Derek coughed to cover his own laugh, smiled into his fist while Stiles flipped Scott the bird, the curve of his lips never bothering to straighten out.

“I didn't know, either.” Stiles admitted. He shrugged one shoulder, turning to throw a smile at Derek. “But, it really, really is.”

All of them froze in place, even Allison who was reacting instinctively to the wolves' cues, when the hoarse, “ _Told you so_.” carried in from the room next door.

Scott was rushing for the door before the rest of them even had a chance to move, banging through into the exam room to throw himself onto Isaac's cot. Isaac made an oomph sound when Scott's weight knocked the wind from his lungs, but he tightened his arms around him all the same, holding Scott close and huffing a croaky laugh when Scott buried his nose in the curve of his neck. 

Allison didn't wait for Scott to release Isaac, just climbed over the mini puppy pile to fit herself into the narrow space left between them and the wall, nuzzling her face into the other side of Isaac's neck and throwing her leg over Scott's back.

“How do you feel?” she asked, her words muffled against Isaac's throat. 

“Squished.” Isaac grunted, though he made no move to free himself. He actually seemed to settle even more comfortably in between and beneath them, all three of them radiating relief and affection. “And not at all optimistic about this cot's ability to hold all of our weight.”

Stiles smiled fondly at them, leaning into Derek's side and smiling wider still at the way Derek's arm slipped around his waist as though it were an automatic reaction. “At least you haven't lost your sense of humor.” he noted, catching Isaac's eye. “That's gotta be a good sign.”

“I feel okay.” he assured, shifting around until Allison and Scott let him sit up, stationing themselves on either side of him like gargoyles set to protect him from any and all attacks. “I feel really weak.” he admitted quietly, as though saying it out loud took more strength than he could muster. “I'm starving and my head is killing me, but other than that...”

Stiles had to admit, Isaac looked pretty good for someone who'd been unconscious for the last thirty-some hours. He was still a little on the pale side, but he was no longer ashen and gray. He had some color back in his cheeks, his complexion warm and pink despite the deep bruise-colored circles beneath bloodshot eyes. Over all, it was a hell of a lot better than just a few hours before and Stiles figured they'd take what they could get.

“Oh!” Erica exclaimed suddenly, ducking out of the room only to return a second later with a paper bag full of breakfast sandwiches and a bottle of water. “Eat.” she instructed, pushing her loot into Isaac's hands.

He smiled his thanks as he cracked the cap off the water. “So, what did I miss? How long have I been out?”

“About a day and a half.” Scott informed him with a dark look. 

Stiles sent out a mass text to the rest of the pack, letting them know Isaac was awake while everyone else filled him in on what happened in the time he'd been unconscious. Isaac listened, scarfing down a few sandwiches and nodding his understanding while his pack mates talked over and around each other. 

“My dad and Parrish have the entire station keeping an eye out for the Kearney's.” Stiles threw in, drawing Isaac's attention as he stuffed his phone back into his pocket. “So far, none of our leads have panned out. It's slow going, but we're working on it.”

Isaac's eyebrows drew together, a frown pulling down the corners of his mouth.

“What is it?” Allison questioned softly, running soothing fingers through his hair.

Isaac frowned, thinking hard. The pack fell silent around him, waiting patiently for him to find the thread of whatever he was trying to dredge up. 

After a long while he seemed to grasp it, his mouth curving down further. “I think I remember something. It's sort of fuzzy, though.”

“It's okay.” Scott assured him, threading their fingers together and holding their joined hands in his lap. “Take your time.” 

After another few moments Isaac nodded, eyes lifting to address the pack. “I heard the hunters before Malia did.” he told them. “I thought that I could circle around, catch them off guard while they were focused on her. I think I heard them talking about Carrick. Something about a check-in, maybe.”

“Can you remember where?” Scott pressed gently, not wanting to push too hard but eager for more information.

“East, I think.” Isaac supplied hesitantly. “Beacon Point? That's east, right?”

“Yeah.” Allison confirmed. “It's out by the old ironworks, just above Winslow Lake.”

Scott glanced sideways at Stiles. “That's a lot of ground to cover.”

“It's a place to start.” Stiles told him, his mind drawing up a search grid for the pack to follow even as he spoke. 

Scott looked hesitant to stand, his gaze lingering over Isaac and Allison before turning back to Stiles. Having known Scott for pretty much the entirety of his existence, Stiles was well versed in the plethora of emotions Scott could convey with nothing but his eyes. The torn expression haunting his face added to the pleading in his eyes and Stiles was quick to jump into the leadership role just to force that look away.

“I'll take care of it.” he said determinedly. “Lydia and Deaton are on their way. They'll want to look you over before you get back into the thick of things.” he informed Isaac. “So, you three stay here. The rest of us will split into teams and comb the border. There's gotta be something out there, something we can use to find these assholes before they get another shot at us.”

Derek was already heading for the front door, phone out and dialing up the rest of the pack. Boyd and Erica weren't far behind, each of them itching to get back into the woods, back on the hunt. Scott had banned all of them from stepping foot in the forest until they knew for sure that they weren't going to walk into a trap. They still didn't know for sure that that wasn't the case, but at least now they had a direction to go, a clue to follow.

“Thanks, bro.” Scott muttered softly as he pulled Stiles into a hug, arms banded around his shoulders just this side of too tightly. 

Stiles slapped him companionably on the back, not even resisting when Scott rubbed his cheek against his. “Of course, dude. Isaac's gotta come first right now. Derek and I have this under control.” he promised.

“I know.” Scott smiled tiredly, pulling back to hold Stiles at arms length, squeezing his shoulders. He seemed to argue with himself for a beat, his eyes searching Stiles' face while his mouth opened and closed silently a time or two.

“Spit it out.” Stiles sighed, rolling his eyes. 

Scott chuckled, shaking his head. “You just... You're different. Both of you. Not in a bad way!” he amended quickly when Stiles tried to protest. “You're just more... Settled, I guess? It reminds me of-” he cut himself off, eyes flicking back to where Allison was tucked into Isaac's lap, her face pushed into his neck.

Stiles' heart clenched and skipped, his stomach fluttering like he'd swallowed a net full of butterflies. The idea that him being with Derek was on any kind of level even remotely reminiscent of the relationship Scott shared with Allison and Isaac made Stiles' lungs feel tight and his throat raw.

“I'll text you when we find something.” he choked out, backing for the door in a way he prayed was subtle but knew wouldn't be nearly subtle enough for Scott to not notice.

Scott shook his head again, his smile reaching his eyes. “Yeah, you do that.” His smile was small and private when he turned and made his way back to the cot.

 

*

 

Derek left Stiles at the clinic, opting to ride with Erica and Boyd rather than swinging by the Sheriff's station before heading for the eastern border. Stiles offered to pick up Parrish mostly so he could harass his father into accepting a ride home, not wanting him to drive after having worked almost as long as Isaac had been comatose. The Sheriff bitched halfheartedly but acquiesced when Parrish bribed him with the promise of coffee and a donut on the way. Stiles probably would have objected if not for the euphoric sense of freedom filling his chest, telling him that Derek was shifted and running.

It only took about an hour for Stiles and Parrish to meet up with the rest of the pack, all of them ready and waiting by their cars when Stiles pulled up in the Toyota, Parrish in the passenger seat. Stiles tossed his jacket into the backseat before they climbed out, heading for the loose huddle near the trailheads.

“Can we go now?” Malia asked, practically vibrating with the need to hunt. Kira ran a hand down the center of her back to calm her, but Malia just continued to shiver in place, her claws already poking though the tip of her fingers.

Pulling the gun Jackson retrieved when Isaac had been shot from inside his jacket, Parrish handed it to Derek. “There should be enough of the hunter's scents on this for you guys to track.”

“We already have it.” Jackson informed them, jerking his thumb toward Malia.

“Which is why I'm splitting you up.” Stiles said. “Jackson, you're with Erica. Boyd with Derek, and Malia with Kira and Liam.” he told them as he sent out texts, each of them containing a specific section of the terrain for each team to search. “Parrish and I will take the rest. Chris and a few of his people are out there, too, so make sure you know who's who before you make with the fangs and claws.”

“This coming from you?” Jackson snarked, snapping his teeth playfully when Stiles flashed his eyes at him.

“Don't attack unless you have no other choice.” Derek told the pack. “Avoiding a war should still be our main focus.”

“What do you expect us to do when we find these assholes?” Erica asked, one brow cocked over eyes already glowing Gold. “They're hunters, Derek. They've certainly made it clear that they are not interested in peace talks.”

“Text me or Stiles, and stay on them. We need to know where they're hiding and we can't do that if you kill them.” he said pointedly, eyeing Erica and Malia. “If you find Carrick and can manage it without getting yourselves killed, detain him.”

“Keep your eyes open.” Stiles added, meeting the eyes of each pack member. “The Kearney's have already proven that they're not above shooting to kill. Watch each others backs and stay in contact.”

Everyone dispersed, breaking off into their assigned groups and heading off in the direction their maps dictated.

Before Stiles could move to follow Parrish into the forest, Derek grabbed him by the elbow and spun him back around to face him. His face was a hard mask of determination, but Stiles could feel the worry below the surface. 

“Be careful.” Derek said, his voice low. “Parrish might be able to regenerate, but you can't.”

Stiles smiled and leaned in to press a kiss to Derek's mouth. When he pulled back he cupped one hand to Derek's neck, rubbing his thumb gently into the fleshy hollow beneath his jaw. 

“Don't worry so much, Der. You're gonna give yourself wrinkles.” Stiles teased, trying to alleviate some of the weight pressing down on them. 

“They'll match all the grays you've given me.” Derek growled, pushing forward to steal another kiss before taking a step back, fixing Stiles with a glare that didn't hold any heat. “I'll see you later.”

“You bet your sweet ass you will.” Stiles grinned lecherously as he walked backwards toward Parrish, eyebrows wriggling exaggeratedly.


	13. Or Is It The Storm?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Stiles decided to take the term "forged by fire" and run with it.
> 
> Any and all blame is totally on him.

The thing Derek loved about being teamed up with Boyd was the silence. If he'd been paired with any other member of the pack Derek's ears would have been bleeding before they'd even reached their designated section of the forest. He'd have spent the the previous twenty minutes being badgered half to death for details on his and Stiles' relationship, rather than what they were actually supposed to be doing.

If Stiles had sent Derek out with any of the others, save for maybe Parrish, every second would have been filled with incessant and invasive questions; How it all happened and where it was going, why it took so long for both of them to get their shit together and admit how they felt- Not to mention the thinly veiled and flat out threats of “hurt him and I'll kill you”. 

Fortunately, Stiles knew Derek better than anyone and had seen fit to give him Boyd as a partner. The two of them worked well together, moving through the forest in silent tandem, while keeping their senses open and on alert for anything even remotely indicative of the Kearney clan having been there. 

Derek chose to forgo the shift, deciding that staying human facilitated communication more easily than his wolf form did. 

Not that Boyd was particularly talkative. As a matter of fact, he and Derek hadn't said more than a handful of words to each other since they left the rest of the pack. They just worked their section of the grid with singular focus, thankfully not crossing paths with any hunters.

Unfortunately, they also hadn't come across anything that might lead them to the hunters, either. Derek tried not to let himself get frustrated, but it got more difficult the longer they spent traipsing through the underbrush. Just knowing that the Kearney's were out there, their sole intention to bring pain and death to the pack; It made anger simmer under Derek's skin. He'd lost his pack once, he'd die before he let it happen again.

Forty-five minutes into their search Derek's phone vibrated in his back pocket. Boyd didn't even blink at the sound, simply slowed his pace and pulled out his own phone when it hummed a second later.

**From Lydia:**   
**\- Unforeseen effects from hunter's bullets. No immediate action required, but avoid contact if at all possible.**

“Well, that sounds horrible.” Boyd said blandly as he tucked his phone away. “What do you think they do?”

“Other than knock a werewolf on his ass for over a day?” Derek asked sarcastically, rolling his eyes at the forest floor. 

Boyd snorted. “There it is.”

Derek's eyebrows went up in question as he tossed a look over his shoulder at Boyd. “What?”

“Stiles.” Boyd shrugged, as if that said it all.

“What about him?” Derek asked, albeit a little defensively.

Boyd leveled Derek with a bored look. “Come on, man. You guys have that weird mind-meld thing going on. Sometimes, you open your mouth and he just spills out everywhere.”

Derek's foot chose that moment to get caught in a snarl of fallen branches and he pitched forward. He managed to reach out and steady himself with the trunk of a nearby tree, though not before he felt his ears heat. 

Boyd let out a genuine laugh, then. “Yeah, that didn't sound quite as dirty until I said it out loud.” he chuckled. “But, the point stands.”

“I don't know what you mean.” Derek snapped, righting himself and shoving away from the tree. 

It was a lie and they both knew it. It hadn't escaped Derek's notice how much influence Stiles had over him. It was impossible to pretend he didn't see the multitude of ways he'd changed, especially over the last year or so. The more time Derek spent with Stiles, the more they seemed to pick up bits and pieces of each other.

It never really bothered Derek, to be honest. He found himself loosening up a little, a smile splitting his face more often and with greater ease, and couldn't bring himself to hate it. The pack noticed, too. Derek would never forget the shocked expression on Erica's face when the words “five by five” passed his lips after Stiles made him watch _Buffy_ for an entire weekend.

Stiles got things from Derek, too. Where Derek leveled out and found a balance between the positives and the negatives, Stiles found his own kind of equilibrium.

After the incident with the Darach- when Stiles, Allison, and Scott had sacrificed themselves to save their parents -the darkness around Stiles' heart brought a darkness to Stiles himself. That shadowed part of his soul created a hollow; A lifeless, empty space inside him that the Nogitsune had been all to eager to fill. The aftermath of that possession left Stiles with a fractured part of himself that he had no idea what to do with. 

The more time Stiles spent with Derek, the more comfortable he got with that part of himself. Instead of letting himself wallow in it, allowing it to spread, Stiles found focus and acceptance in Derek. It wasn't that Malia and the rest of the pack didn't try to understand. They did, it was just impossible to understand unless you lived it.

Derek had. 

Derek knew what it felt like to be responsible for the deaths of people you cared about, even if you, yourself, hadn't been the one to take their life away. Derek understood what it was like to wrestle with guilt no one else could ever hope to comprehend, to close your eyes every night and see the faces of the people you couldn't save, hadn't know enough to know they needed protection from you in the first place. 

Long before they'd become a them, Stiles and Derek found solace in one another, found someone who gave them the pieces of themselves they hadn't known they were missing. 

Derek just didn't realize that the rest of the pack realized the extent of it.

“I believe your companion is referring to the long established and newly intensified bond between your mate and yourself, Wolf.” The response, notably not from Boyd, startled Derek.

He and Boyd turned toward the voice as one, both of them lowered into a defensive crouch, their fangs tripped and their claws out. Derek straightened when he realized who the voice belonged to. 

“Prince.” he sighed, sheathing his fangs. 

“I am pleased that you recall our previous interaction.” The faerie beamed from his perch on a nearby fallen log, his wings folded up behind him. “I admit, I was a bit worried you may not remember me outside of your wolf's skin.”

“Prince?” Boyd asked, one brow hiked at the faerie though his question was clearly directed at Derek. “You know this... guy?”

“We've met.” Derek allowed. “Remember that thing with the faeries a few days ago?”

Boyd's expression didn't change, save for the brow he arched at Derek.

“Prince, here, is the head of their Court.” Derek explained.

“Indeed.” Prince nodded, chocolate curls bouncing. 

Derek shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, giving off an air of patience. He'd had enough dealings with the Fae to know that this one wouldn't get around to his reasons for appearing until he was good and ready. Boyd followed his lead and propped himself casually against a tree, hands in the pockets of his jeans.

“What can we do for you?” Boyd asked, his tone dry.

“Not a thing.” Prince answered, then turned his attention to Derek, “However, there is quite a lot that I might do for you. Tell me, Wolf, where is your boy?”

“With Scott.” Derek lied easily, testing. 

It was something his mother taught them when he and his siblings were still pups. _“You always want to know exactly what cards are in play before you show your hand,”_ she told them. It was a strategy Derek employed on a regular basis and, in this case, seemed to be the way to go.

Prince's eyes darkened a shade, his smile losing a bit of its curve. “Did you know that the Fae share a talent with werewolves?” When neither Derek nor Boyd answered, Prince elaborated. “We, too, can hear lies. The mechanism may vary, but the result is the same.”

“Why ask a question you already know the answer to, then?” Derek asked, brows up. “These woods may belong to the McCall pack, but your Court is inhabiting them. You know better than we do who's out here.”

Prince's wings unfolded, their copper surface catching the sun and reflecting it in a glittering shine. He fluttered forward, hovering less than a foot away from where Derek and Boyd stood. 

“True though that may be, Wolf, my question is not for nothing.” the faerie admonished, his eyes fixed solely on Derek's face, dismissing Boyd entirely. “I'll not ask thrice. Where. Is. Your. Boy.”

“He's here.” Derek told him, grudgingly. “Out by the Ironworks.”

Prince shuddered, the tremor rippling through him all the way to the tips of his wings. “A wretched place, that. To more than the likes of me, I would venture.” After a moment, a long pause in which Prince's eyes glazed over and went distant, he seemed to remember himself, “Quite fortuitous that your pack should count a phoenix among your number.”

Derek considered that, frowning. If Prince knew that Stiles was with Parrish... “You already knew that Stiles was here, in the woods.” he accused.

“I did.” Prince agreed.

“But, you asked where he was.” Derek frowned harder, trying to get ahead of his thoughts, to untangle the web of information Prince was weaving around him. 

Fucking faeries. They could never just be forthcoming with what they knew. Always with the song and dance.

Prince didn't respond, just lifted his brows expectantly at Derek. 

“Is he... He's not in trouble, I'd feel it.” Derek said, just as much to reassure himself as to reaffirm it as fact. 

“Your boy is safe.” Prince said, his eyes wide and serious. “For the time being.” 

Derek took a step forward, only halting when Boyd laid a hand on his shoulder and gripped. “Easy.” Boyd said warningly.

“So eager to battle.” Prince observed, head tilted as his eyes brightened. “That instinct will serve you well in the coming days.”

“What are you not telling us?” Derek demanded, loosing the last of his patience with the Fae's brand of mind games. 

He cast his senses out to make sure that Stiles was indeed alright. He was relieved to find that he could feel Stiles, his determined curiosity and his apprehension, as though he were standing right beside him. Stiles was fine, if a little antsy, but it still served to ease the knot of worry in Derek's chest.

Prince ignored Derek's question. Instead, he held out his hand and unfurled his fingers. Derek's eyebrows pulled down in confusion when he spotted the small drawstring bag held out to him, its long silken ties glinting. The bag was larger than the palm it sat in, its velveteen fabric a deep, rich shade of green, swirled through with symbols Derek had never seen before. 

“You will also need this, if your pack is to survive to see month's end.” Prince said solemnly, his eyes never once leaving Derek's. “Your Alpha did my Court a great service by allowing us to stay here in his forest. The Fae are not fond of leaving debts unpaid.” He smiled then, his eyes crinkling at the corners, “In the interest of transparency, I must also admit; I find myself quite fond of you and your boy. Such a curious pair you make. I would be... displeased with your loss.”

Derek hesitated but took the bag when Prince shook it softly in his direction. He didn't hear a lie in the faerie's heartbeat and took the risk, holding the bag gingerly. “What is it?” he asked.

“Go now, give it to your boy, Wolf.” Prince directed, his eyes glowing a clear jewel tone green. “He will know its purpose.”

Before Derek could open his mouth to ask any more questions the faerie vanished into thin air with a faint pop, leaving nothing behind but a fine puff of faerie dust.

“What the hell was that?” Boyd questioned, peering over Derek's shoulder to eye the bag held in his hand.

Derek growled under his breath, more frustrated than he'd been before Prince decided to stick his nose in the mix. “Your guess is probably as good as mine at this point.”

Boyd nodded slowly, his mouth pulled down at the corners. “Are faeries always that vague with their warnings?”

“Pretty much, yeah.” Derek sighed, turning the bag over in his hand. “From what my father told us, the Fae are only allowed to interfere with human matters to a certain degree. Us being wolves gives them a bit more leeway, but they still have rules they have to follow.”

“Okay... So, what do you want to do?” Boyd asked, casting his gaze around the now eerily silent woods surrounding them. 

Derek deliberated for a moment, trying to convince himself that Stiles was perfectly safe with Parrish, that there was no reason for them to deviate from their set course. He almost succeeded, too. 

Right up until pain ripped through Derek's chest, a tearing burn through his right pectoral that punched the air out of him, one word carried out in a gust.

“ _Stiles_.”

An angry, agonized howl was renting the air, ripping empty space into tatters in its ferocity. On its heels came the piercing shriek of a phoenix, both sounds ricocheting through the forest louder and sharper than a whip's crack. 

Derek was tossing Prince's bag to Boyd and shredding his way out of his clothes before he even registered the decision to move, the only coherent thought in his mind the panicked, terrified echo of Stiles' name reverberating around his skull like a bassline drumbeat.

Boyd was pocketing the bag and shifting, ready to follow Derek into a battle he couldn't see, couldn't feel, without a second's hesitation, when another howl went up. Boyd flinched, recognizing the furious sound of Erica's call, undoubtedly able to feel her rage through their own bond.

“Fuck.” Derek snarled, the word going twisted and distorted as the wolf burst through his skin and he bolted into the trees, thundering through the forest with the need to get to his mate, to find Stiles and rip apart whoever had been stupid enough to hurt him.

 

*

 

“This place gives me the creeps.” Parrish pulled a face, a shiver tracking its way down his spine.

Stiles snorted as he climbed the crumbling stone steps to the front entrance of the Beacon Point Ironworks. “Sorry, Deputy Big Bird, but it's in our cut of the forest.” 

Parrish chuckled and shoved at Stiles' shoulder, rolling his eyes at the nickname only Stiles dared to employ. “Don't think it has escaped my notice that you're the one that divvied up the territory.”

Stiles kept his mouth set in a half-smirk, ignoring Parrish in favor of pushing his way through the rust-encrusted front door, wincing a little as it creaked noisily in protest. 

With a heavily put upon sigh, Parrish flicked on his flashlight and followed Stiles inside, his gun up and ready. “Are we going to pretend that there's no particular reason you wanted to search this building, specifically?” he asked, sweeping the beam of artificial light around the shadowed interior of the long abandoned building.

“Depends.” Stiles shrugged as his eyes bled Gold and he blinked into the darkness. “What are the chances that you won't rat me out to Derek?”

“Slim to none.” Parrish immediately responded, adding “But, only if he asks.” as an afterthought.

Stiles let that roll around in his head while he pushed his senses out into the cavernous factory, searching for anything outside of the expected wildlife sounds and scents, layered over years of dust and mildew. The building smelled heavily of iron, which was also to be expected. However, there were a few distinct scents lingering beneath the iron, scents that Stiles would have been more surprised to not find.

Having found what he was looking for, Stiles decided it was time share with Parrish the suspicion he'd withheld from the rest of the pack.

“If I told you that I was ninety-nine percent sure this is currently being used as a Kearney safe house, how pissed would you be?”

Parrish sighed again. “Given the gravity of Lydia's message, and the fact that you and I alone are no match for an entire clan of hunters? Astronomically.” 

“And, if I said that I am now one-hundred percent sure?” Stiles pursed his lips and gave Parrish his best innocent doe eyes. 

“Unquantifiably.” Parrish fixed Stiles with a disapproving glare, which wasn't very effective considering Stiles spent the last nearly four years of his life around Derek. “How screwed are we, Stiles?”

“Since no one is here at the moment, not very.” Stiles reasoned, earning himself another, darker look. “Oh, don't be like that, man! Look, when Isaac told us about the Beacon Point thing, I remembered my dad talking about this place. It's been empty for years, right?”

“Right.” Parrish agreed reluctantly, letting Stiles lead them deeper into the recesses of the building. “They shut it down in the sixties. So?”

“So, Dad said it was cited for negligent environmental practices. All the runoff from the plant caused obnoxious levels of iron, phosphorous, and lead in the soil, and the EPA had a conniption fit.” Stiles explained as they stepped into an open section of the factory floor.

“This has what to do with the hunters?” 

“Iron- raw, untreated iron- wreaks havoc on almost all supernatural creatures, including werewolves. It fucks with our senses, our healing, and our ability to shift back and forth between forms. Malia, Kira, and Lydia would all be affected, too. I don't honestly know how a phoenix would react to iron, but I didn't find anything that said it was toxic to you, so... Can you see where I'm going with this?” Stiles asked, dragging open a heavy steel door, one much like the one in Derek's loft.

He peered inside the mostly empty room, stepping inside when he spotted a make-shift living area set up in the furthest corner away from the door. There was an old table with a couple of chairs against one wall and a dirty, ancient looking sofa and chair set against the other.

“You think the Kearney's have been hiding here because the pack would be naturally inclined to avoid this area?” 

Stiles nodded, shifting through some papers left out on the table. They didn't seem to be anything important, just random bits of notebook paper, but the scent of wolfsbane was pungent on their surface. Stiles' skin itched but he continued to snoop around, searching for clues.

“Where better to hide than in the last place a pack of werewolves with a hard-on for revenge would look for you?” Stiles muttered, bending down to get a closer look at an empty bullet casing lying on the floor beside the table. 

It was nearly identical to the bullets in the gun Jackson snagged from the hunters, right down to the tapered tip and the symbol engraved in its side; A dagger clenched in a gloved fist. It wreaked of wolfsbane and iron, but there was something off about it. Underneath the familiar scents was another, stronger scent. It made Stiles' head ache just smelling it, so he made the wise choice and left the casing lying where it was.

“Why didn't you just tell Derek and the others?” Parrish questioned, brows knotted tight. “We could have come as a pack, Stiles.”

Stiles jaw went tight as he stood up, his eyes blazing Gold. “I couldn't risk leading them into a trap, Jordan.” 

“But you could risk us, risk yourself?” 

Stiles didn't like the knowing look in Parrish's eye. He downright hated it, if he was being honest.

“It's not really a risk for you.” Stiles tried to reason. “It would take a hell of a lot more than what these hunters are packing to put you down.”

“Do you really care so little about your own survival?” Parrish almost snarled the question, taking Stiles by surprise with his anger. “Damn it, Stiles! You already died once for this pack, wasn't that enough? You're not invincible, you moron. How many times do you think there's going to be an escape hatch from death? How many times are you going to risk it?”

“As many times as it takes!” Stiles snarled back, defensive and painfully sincere. “If it means protecting the pack, protecting Derek and my dad and Scott, protecting everyone I love, I will throw myself on the pyre every fucking time.”

Parrish's eyes flashed that fiery, flickering shade of orange, but before he could hurl back any sort of rebuttal Stiles was on his knees and howling.

They hadn't heard the hunter approach, hadn't heard the gun cock or the trigger pull.

And yet, in the blink of an eye, Stiles was down, black and crimson rushing down his chest from the hole in his chest as poison spidered out, tar-like and noxious in his veins. The sound of Parrish emptying his clip barely registered as Stiles bowed up from the floor, futilely trying to get away from the pain.

Parrish was avian before Stiles' howl died in his throat, picking up where he left off, the phoenix cry piercing and shrill as he launched himself at the lone hunter.

The world was going blue at the edges when Stiles heard Erica's howl rip through the forest outside, making what was left of the windows shudder in their panes. There were more footsteps, more hunters flooding into the room, and Stiles was fighting to shove himself back to his feet. 

If they were going down, they were going down fighting.

Stiles' claws wouldn't come when he tried to force them through the tips of his fingers, though his fangs dropped with only a bit of resistance. His wolf was whining and writhing in his head, thrashing in pain as the wolfsbane seared through them, but Stiles couldn't afford to give either of them a chance to breath. They could both feel Derek's desperation, could almost taste his fear as he got closer to them, but they didn't have time to wait for him anymore than they could the rest of the cavalry.

Stiles staggered to his feet just as Parrish tore through a hunter's chest with his talons. The woman crumpled to the floor in a bloody heap, giving another hunter the chance to get off a shot, but Parrish didn't so much as flinch when the bullet tore through his vibrant, flame-colored plumage. 

Stiles weakly threw himself into the fray, a snarl shredding his chest on the way up. Blood flecked out into the air with the sound, telling Stiles he was in serious trouble if he didn't heal soon. And, he wasn't healing, that much he knew for sure. The wolfsbane burning in the back of his throat prevented his body from knitting itself back together, from pushing out the poison. Even as Stiles ripped the throat out of a young hunter who leveled their gun at his head, he could feel himself dying. 

There was more than wolfsbane in the bullet lodged in his chest, he could taste it. Iron and silver flooded Stiles with heat, made him feel as though he were trapped in the bowels of hell, but there was something else, too. Something that made Stiles' head feel like someone was jamming an icepick through his temples and scrambling his brain. 

Stiles collapsed, his strength gone and the fight bleeding out of him faster than his actual blood. His sight was slowly going dark as his body convulsed. He tried to claw his way back out, struggled to free himself from the flames clawing him apart at the seams, reducing him to nothing but ash, but no matter how much he fought it, he couldn't throw it off. 

Everything was too heavy, too consumed by flames. Stiles couldn't see, couldn't feel anything but the pain as he drowned in it, was swallowed by it. His wolf howled and whimpered, and Stiles was probably crying but surely his tears evaporated before they could even attempt to douse the flames.

“ _Stiles!_ ”

Stiles knew the voice belonged to Derek, instinctively tried to turn toward it, to respond. He tried to call back, to scream and plead, to apologize and beg for the pain to stop. He tried to reach out, to tell Derek he was sorry, that he was so, so sorry. 

Because this- This burning from the inside out, this fire that scorched and ravaged and decimated him; Derek had to be feeling it, too.

And that was somehow worse than anything Stiles had ever done. Of all the lies he'd told, all the mistakes he'd made and the lives he'd taken, putting Derek through this, again, was by far the most unforgivable sin Stiles could ever have committed. 

How awful for him to have dragged Derek into the flames, to have delivered him right into their clutches. What kind of mate was he, putting Derek through that, knowing what happened to his family. What kind of pitiful, horribly selfish mate would even risk that, knowing or unknowingly? 

“ _Stiles! Come on, Stiles, don't do this to me. I need you, damn it. Don't you fucking dare leave me_.”

Stiles could tell Derek was crying, couldn't do anything to stop it. Apologies died in his throat, soaked in fire and poison, too heavily saturated to pour from his lips the way he begged them to. 

When everything faded from blue to black, even Derek's voice could no longer anchor him. It was a downward spiral into nothingness, a too quick descent into hollow space that left Stiles terrified.

Suffocating and burning alive, he couldn't even pretend to be anything but thankful when silence reigned and darkness swallowed him whole.


	14. Solomon's Seal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of Derek feels in this chapter, my lovelies, so be prepared!

Barreling into the room on two legs, forcing himself out of the shift with more effort than was typical, Derek barely paid any mind to the members of his pack that managed to beat him to the scene. He scanned the room, desperately searching for Stiles. His eyes snagged on his pack just long enough to see that they were having trouble shifting, hovering somewhere between human and not as they battled with the hunters.

The only one who seemed unaffected was Parrish. Derek's eyes caught quick flashes of flame engulfed feathers as Parrish flew across the room and wrapped his wings around a hunter. Derek heard the pained scream rip from the hunter's throat as his skin bubbled and burned as Boyd's footsteps caught up to him. Boyd didn't even pause, just jumped straight into the middle of the fight and started swinging.

Derek's instincts were torn, half of him wanting to leap into the fray, to help his pack, while the other half ached with the need to get to Stiles. The decision was made when Derek's gaze swept over a body lying on the floor on the far side of the room, its riotous brown hair and moon-pale skin a red flag in an ocean of white. 

“Stiles!” 

Derek was carving his way through the fight before anyone even noticed he was there, weaving through the broken bodies and slipping in pools of blood in his mad rush to reach Stiles' writhing form. The tortured whimper that seeped from Stiles' lips pulled hard at Derek's heart, had his stomach lurching with panic and bile. 

Skidding to a stop by Stiles' side, Derek dropped to the floor so hard that his kneecap cracked. He didn't even feel it, could feel nothing but the agony pouring out of Stiles, heavier than lead and thicker than molasses. He hesitated, hands hovering indecisively over Stiles' face, twisted in pain. With a growl Derek maneuvered himself around so that he was kneeling by Stiles' head and lifted it gently. Once Stiles' head was cushioned in his lap, Derek tried to pull some of his pain only to realize that he couldn't. It was too overwhelming, too all encompassing, and Derek couldn't even begin to put a dent in Stiles' agony.

Trusting his pack to protect them from any hunters who might think them an easy target, Derek listened, blocked out the din of battle and focused his hearing on Stiles' heart. It was beating, though barely- a too heavy chug of sound that was too slow and more uneven than was safe.

“Stiles! Come on, Stiles, don't do this to me. I need you, damn it. Don't you fucking dare leave me.” Derek sobbed, ignoring the stream of tears as they spilled down his cheeks. Derek's fingers scrabbled at Stiles' chest as he hauled him further into his lap and pushed his face into the crook of Stiles' neck. “ _Please_.”

With a spasm that wracked his entire frame, Stiles went limp, his body so eerily still he seemed to be made of marble. The fire in Derek's chest didn't go out, didn't stop trying to burn him to the ground, but that only made it worse. If he could still feel it, that meant Stiles' body was still being ravaged by it. Beneath the mask of unconsciousness some part of Stiles was still burning.

Derek cradled Stiles to his chest, face buried in his throat as he begged and pled for him to open his eyes. The sluggish thump of Stiles' heart skipped and wavered, and Derek felt the blistering heat start to fade.

“No. _Nononono_.” Derek sobbed, clutched Stiles tighter to him and prayed to whoever would listen. “Fight, Stiles!” he choked out against Stiles' throat, could taste the salt of his own tears where they drenched Stiles' skin. “You can't do this. You can't leave me, too.”

When the fire finally went out, drained right out of him, Stiles' heart sputtered weakly and then stopped all together. The second Stiles stopped fighting, Derek lost it.

A mournful howl clawed at his throat, left it torn and tattered on its way out. There was a chorus of answering howls, each one more broken and furious than the last. Derek was blind with rage, his field of vision narrowed down to nothing but a scarlet haze of murderous fury. The howl in his throat twisted and morphed into a grief-stricken snarl, the sound gnarled and vengeful. Sick satisfaction surged in his bloodstream at the heavy scent of fear that flooded the room, wafting off each and every hunter in thick blooms. 

Derek had just enough sense left in him to cast eyes around him, knowing he couldn't leave his mate's body unprotected, couldn't leave his heart and soul alone in the middle of the battlefield.

Erica, face streaked with blood and dirt- a blood-soaked savior- skidded to a stop at Stiles' side. She dropped to her knees and reached for him with shaking human hands, splayed them wide over his heart and started pushing. 

“Go!” she growled through partially extended fangs, her voice thick with tears and unrestrained anger. 

Derek was already moving, throwing himself bodily into battle, shifting back into his wolf in midair. There was a hint of push-back before his human form melted into the wolf, but Derek powered through it, his need for vengeance enough to propel him right through the bit of resistance.

The hunter responsible for the bullet in Stiles' chest was already dead, his ribcage torn open by Parrish's sizable talons, but that did little to dampen the unbridled wrath pounding through Derek's veins. His instincts were screaming at him, pushing him to rip and shred, to sink his teeth into flesh and sinew, to tear the whole world down. Every fiber of his being burned, and yet it remained eclipsed by the pure bloodthirst singeing his throat. 

The fight itself was nothing but a blur. 

Derek lost track of how many bodies he dropped after the fourth throat he ripped from its hunter. He was unrepentant in his attack, barely cognizant of friend or foe as he decimated body after body. Instinct alone kept Derek from hurting one of his own.

By the time the Kearney's called a retreat, realized that a wolf seeking revenge for his mate was more dangerous than anything they had to offer, it took Boyd, a newly human Parrish, Chris, and Jackson to prevent Derek from giving chase. 

Malia, Kira, and Liam on the other hand, took off after the retreating party without a word from anyone. 

The pack chain of command was relatively loose, with Scott at the top and Isaac and Stiles constantly trading for second. With all three out of commission the responsibility normally fell to Derek, but... 

Well. 

With their Alpha absent and the other authoritative options out of the running, the pack slipped into a sort of cooperative chaos, wherein each member decided for themselves what needed to be done and did it without hesitation. It wasn't traditional as far as pack hierarchy went, but it worked.

“Derek.” Erica called, the desperation in her voice cutting through the static in his head and throwing him into a state of sudden and uncomfortable clarity. 

Derek ripped himself free from his pack's clutches, waded through the carnage littering the floor and collapsed in a bloody heap beside Stiles' body. Pressing his muzzle into Stiles' side, Derek whined. He nudged Stiles gently, nosed along his ribcage with a mournful whimper. Stiles smelled of burnt wolfsbane and his shirt was ripped from throat to navel, his chest smeared with ash and streaked with blood. 

Derek realized with stark horror that he hadn't even thought of trying to burn the poison out, had skipped right over rational thought and leapt headfirst into revenge. Shame poured through him, made guilt roil fresh in his gut until his stomach heaved and he had to force himself not to throw up.

“Derek.” Erica said again, her tone sharp and demanding through the rasp of tears.

Lifting his head, ignorant of the tear tracks carved through the fur on his cheeks, Derek met her watery gaze. 

“Listen.” she commanded, desperate and a little wild. 

Derek's chin dropped to his paws, but he did as she told him. He opened his senses, sent them outward into the room. It wasn't hard to find what it was Erica wanted him to hear, not once he caught the nearly nonexistent thread of it. 

Years of listening to that sound, of picking it out of a crowd and finding it in the depths of pitch black woods; Having spent the night before with his ear pressed over it, letting it lull him to sleep, Derek would recognize that sound anywhere.

His eyes flew open, his head snapped up, and a high, strangled gasp burst from his lips as he shifted. Wolves weren't meant to switch between forms that quickly, and Derek shouldn't have been able to given the sheer quantity of iron around them, but it was almost as though he was surprised out of his fur and back into his skin. 

“What is it?” Parrish asked, stepping into what was left of his jeans with no mind for the blood and bits of tissue clinging to his skin. 

“Stiles.” Derek murmured, soft and astounded. “His heart's beating.”

 

*

 

One phone call to Deaton, preparing him for their arrival, and the pack was on its way to the clinic. Derek hunkered down in the back of the Toyota with Stiles laid out across the seat, his head in Derek's lap. Parrish rode shotgun, phone pressed to his ear and lips moving rapidly. Derek couldn't hear what he was saying over the sound of Stiles' heartbeat in his head, but assumed Parrish was calling the Sheriff. That call probably should have been Derek's burden to bear, but he hoped John would understand.

By the time Boyd careened them into the clinic's lot Scott was pacing the back entrance, his face a pallid mask of anger that came off more fearful than anything. 

“What the fuck happened out there?” he growled as soon as Derek lifted Stiles out of the car. “You were supposed to protect him, Derek!”

Derek knew that was coming, had prepared for it, but it still made him stagger. His Alpha's anger, his mate's injury, his pack's worry; It all slammed into him like a sledgehammer. His knees went weak with it and threatened to buckle under him. A low growl rumbled in his chest, vibrated through him and into Stiles' broken body as he bared his teeth at Scott.

“Scott.” Isaac intoned gently, pressing his palm to Scott's chest in a move meant to both restrain and soothe him. “Not right now.”

Scott growled again, deep and threatening, but he stormed back into the clinic without another word. Derek could do nothing but follow in his wake, let Allison hold the barrier open so he could carry Stiles into the exam room.

Once Stiles was out of Derek's arms, laying silent and still on the metal table, Derek felt bereft. The weight of Stiles in his arms had been enough to keep him grounded, to stop him from crumbling. Without it, Derek was floundering. He was adrift in an ocean of panic and instincts, and the only person in the universe capable of holding him down was fighting a far more important battle all his own. 

Lydia and Deaton descended on Stiles' nearly lifeless form quickly, their flurried movements seeming to swallow him up. Derek heard himself whining, could feel the raw grate of it in his throat, but could do nothing to stop it as Allison ushered him out into the hallway. She meant to lead him back to the waiting room, but Derek's legs wouldn't carry him that far. He slid down the wall as soon as he stepped outside the exam room, landed painfully on the floor and stayed there.

Erica collapsed beside him, heavy and exhausted. The scent of blood and torched aconite clung to her hair and skin, seeped into her clothes and made Derek's entire body ache. Still, he went easily into her embrace when she threw an arm around his shoulders, buried his head in her lap and allowed himself to shatter. Erica dragged bloodstained fingers through his hair, pointedly ignored any fractured sounds of distress that came from Derek's throat, and murmured gentle words that he couldn't hear but appreciated nonetheless.

Derek didn't hear the Sheriff's cruiser until it was squealing to halt in the parking lot. He stumbled to his feet, Allison and Erica helping him with arms under his biceps, to meet Stiles' father. 

“Derek.” John panted, face flushed and terrified. “What happened? Where is my son?” 

Derek opened his mouth to explain, horrified when all that came out was a cracked facsimile of Stiles' name. 

The Sheriff paled, his head shaking a denial as his legs faltered beneath him. Melissa appeared beside him in time to wrap an arm around his waist, a steadying weight against his side. 

“Hunters.” Derek choked out, forced himself to speak the words if only because Stiles' father deserved to hear them. “Kearney's.”

“Wolfsbane?” Melissa asked, eyes too bright and too shiny. She knew the answer, Derek could see it in every shadowed line of her face.

He nodded jerkily, his eyes brimming with moisture that he blinked back forcefully. Letting his pack see him cry was one thing, but he wouldn't let himself cry now; Not when facing Stiles' father and the woman who loved him as her own, not when they needed him to be strong so that they could waver. 

“Is he-” John's voice broke, his breath hitching helplessly.

“Deaton is doing everything he can.” Allison assured softly, her hand coming to rest on the Sheriff's shoulder. 

Derek sagged back against the wall, watched as Melissa led Stiles' father over to a chair and helped him crumple into it. 

“He's gonna be okay, Derek.” Erica whispered, nuzzling her cheek into his shoulder. Derek sucked in a stuttered breath and leaned into her. “He has to be.”

 

*

 

Almost two hours passed before Lydia and Deaton emerged from the exam room. In that time, Derek never moved so much as an inch away from the door that led inside, never let himself hear anything other than the irregular beat of Stiles' heart on the other side of the wall. 

Kira, Malia, and Liam had yet to return from tracking the Kearney's back to their hideout, and Chris had rounded up a few of his own men to assist them. Boyd and Parrish were doing a patrol of the pack's homes to make sure the hunters weren't lying in wait, ready to attack as soon as they had a member of the pack on their own. 

Through the dishing out of orders and the shifting around of the pack within the clinic, Derek stayed sandwiched between Erica and Allison on the hallway floor. At some point, Jackson had joined them, sitting across from the trio with his arms propped on raised knees. 

When the door to the exam room opened, Derek lurched upright, steadied himself with a hand pressed to the wall as the others scrambled to their feet and Scott and the Sheriff came to join them. Derek gave all of his attention to Deaton and tried to swallow his heart back down into his chest.

“How is he?” John asked, the question coming out breathless and terrified. 

Deaton's face was drawn, his eyes pinched and tired, but he offered them a ghost of a smile. “It seems to me that Stiles' ability to push his limits extends to his mortality. I'd be remiss to make any declarative statements, but I am optimistic.”

“Oh, thank God.” Melissa gasped, her hand coming up to catch the sound as the Sheriff buried his face in his hands and Derek's stomach did somersaults with his heart.

Lydia cleared her throat softly, casting apologetic eyes at the group huddled around her. “There's more.” she informed them.

“You said there was an 'unforeseen effect' from the bullets.” Derek said, remembering the text she'd sent while the rest of the pack was in the forest. “What is it, Lydia?”

“The bullets that Stiles and Isaac were shot with, they're full of more than just the rare wolfsbane.” Lydia explained wearily, her eyes rimmed red. “They contain a blend of aconite, colloidal silver, iron, and an herb called Sigillum Sanctae Mariae, or Solomon's Seal.” 

“What does that mean?” Erica questioned worriedly, her nails, a fraction too sharp to be entirely human dug into Derek's side. 

“Solomon's Seal is a binding herb.” Deaton told them, his frown making Derek's chest hurt. “It has been known to amplify the effects of other herbs, making them more potent.”

“Most of us don't speak magic, doc.” Jackson snapped. “Care to dumb it down for us?”

Lydia, an angry, frustrated flush coloring her cheeks, shoved her hand through her hair. “The concoction inside these bullets is unique, not just to the Kearney's, but also in their effects on shifters. The wolfsbane targets the brain and causes a sort of disconnect between your human side and your supernatural abilities. Burning it out would normally nullify the effects, but the Kearney's figured out a way to make that impossible.”

“The metal.” Derek guessed.

Deaton gave a dip of his chin. “The iron and silver don't burn the way aconite does. They insinuate themselves into the body's cracks and crevices, and stay there. Unfortunately, when one burns the wolfsbane, they also burn the Solomon's Seal, which then binds the effects.”

Erica's nails turned into full-blown claws in Derek's skin, a faint whine emanating from her chest. He pulled her into his side with an arm around her shoulders at the same time Lydia said, “No, Erica, you did the right thing.”

“How was binding that poison into Stiles the _right thing_?” Erica balked.

“It was the only thing you could have done.” Lydia told her, gaze earnest and unwavering. “If you hadn't acted as quickly as you had, he would already be dead. The bullet was too close to his heart, Erica. You saved his life.”

Derek squeezed her tighter, hoping it conveyed even a fraction of his gratitude. From the way Erica practically burrowed under his arm, he thought she got the message.

“This disconnect,” John began cautiously, dragging everyone's focus back to the issue at hand, “what does it mean for my son? It won't kill him, will it?”

“No.” Lydia gritted. “It won't kill him, but his abilities are significantly compromised.”

“How significantly?” Derek growled. 

“His healing, his strength, and his senses will all be dulled to an almost human level.” Lydia said, her eyes skating over to Isaac, who leaned heavily into Scott's side, his eyes on the floor. “Everything that makes him a wolf will be inaccessible until we can find an antidote.”

“Wait,” Jackson said uneasily, his eyes narrowed, “you're not saying-”

“They can't shift.” Derek realized, the knowledge sinking in his gut like a bowling ball. “Anyone hit with one of those bullets is as good as human.”

Lydia and Deaton both nodded grimly. 

“That appears to be the case, yes.” Deaton agreed.

Lydia broke down the bullet's effects even further. “The aconite causes a disruption in the shifters central nervous system, wreaking havoc with their ability to heal.” she explained, eyes sweeping around the group, lingering on Derek and the Sheriff. “This disruption acts like a distraction of sorts, and while the body is focused on trying to find and repair the break in its circuitry, the metals lodge themselves in the circulatory system, completely undetected until it's too late. The Solomon's Seal binds the iron and the silver to the body, making it impossible to flush them out.”

“That's their plan.” Derek sneered, his wolf howling its anger in his head. “That's why they waited instead of attacking, why they keep playing these games.” 

Scott's hard-set jaw, his clenched teeth and even more tightly clenched fist told Derek that he'd already had the same thought. “The Kearney's are going to wait until enough of us have been hit, and then they're going to wipe us out.”

Derek's eyes flashed Blue in response to the Red in Scott's irises and beside him Erica snarled, “Over my dead body.”

Tension rippled through the pack, all the wolves going rigid with righteous anger while the humans barely managed not to shake with it. 

“Scott?” Allison prodded gently, never releasing the death-grip she had on Isaac's hand.

Scott blinked a few times to right his eyes, then settled them on both of his mates. He seemed to drink them in, his eyes searching and needful. Derek knew the feeling, felt it prickle beneath his own skin. He needed to get his hands on Stiles, and soon.

“I, uh.” Scott wavered, indecisive, until he steeled himself and pulled his shoulders back. “We can't do anything more tonight, not with the state you guys are in.” He waved a hand at them, gesturing at the grime and bodily fluids covering them. “The others should be back soon, why don't you guys go home and get some sleep? We'll meet at the loft in the morning.”

“I'm staying here.” Derek announced, though he assumed Scott knew, regardless.

“Actually,” Lydia interjected before Scott could respond, “there's nothing more we can do for him here. It's just a waiting game at this point. His wound is as healed as it's going to get for the time being, and Erica probably cut his restorative sleep time in half with her quick reaction. If you want to take him home, he would probably be more comfortable there. You both would.”

Before Derek could even open his mouth to agree, Stiles' father said, “I'll swing by the house and then meet you there.” 

Derek's brows went up, soft and stunned. When Lydia suggested Derek bring Stiles home he assumed she meant back to the Sheriff's house, the only home Stiles had ever lived in. It hadn't even occurred to him that she meant the loft, though it obviously had to John.

“Give me half an hour.” John gave Derek a reassuring pat on the shoulder, his fingers curling tightly into the curve of his clavicle before he released him and gestured for Melissa to lead him out of the clinic.

Derek couldn't help but stare after them, too surprised to erupt in movement the way the rest of the pack did around him. 

He'd known for years that home and Stiles were synonymous in his mind. Home hadn't been a place for Derek since he realized that he'd never feel more at ease, more comfortable and content than he did when he was with Stiles. 

In all that time it never occurred to him that someday, somehow, Stiles could feel the same. Yet, Stiles' father knew that taking Stiles home didn't mean taking him to the Stilinski house. Without so much as a flutter in his heartbeat, no hint of hesitation in sight, John knew that Stiles' home was now wherever Derek was.

And how was that for a revelation?

 

*

 

“Can't sleep either, Son?” 

Derek's head snapped up from where he'd been staring into the distance, unseeing. He turned to look at the Sheriff, his face appearing more lined and years older under the light from the almost full moon. John looked exhausted, his mouth parenthesized with deep frown lines and his eyes lacking any light. 

Derek sighed and pushed himself upright, turning around so that his back rested against the stone wall of his balcony. “Yeah, sleeping doesn't appear to be in the cards for me tonight.”

John hummed his agreement as he came to stand beside Derek, his arms crossed over his chest as he looked out across the parking lot. “You would think I'd be used to sleepless nights by now. After all the shit you kids have gotten into over the last couple of years...”

Derek winced, guilt washing through him. “I'm sorry, Sir. All of this is-”

Stiles' father cut him off with a heatless glare. “If the next words out of your mouth are anything even remotely close to 'my fault', I can't promise I won't shoot you.”

A laugh was surprised out of Derek's chest. “Understood, Sir.”

John sighed then, his eyes going soft and warm. “Stop with the 'sir' crap, will you? John is fine, son.”

Derek's gaze fell to his feet, but he nodded. 

“You know, I never thought I'd say this,” the Sheriff started, and Derek braced himself, “but my son is a lucky young man to have someone like you in his life, Derek.”

Brows drawn in a tight knot, Derek glanced sideways at John. 

“Now, don't look at me like that. I know you and I got off on the wrong foot, what with my son accusing you of murder and whatnot.” Derek snorted at that, but the Sheriff continued, "I like to think we're well past all of that, don't you?”

“Yes, Si- John.” Derek corrected with a nervous chuckle. 

John gave Derek a hearty slap on the shoulder. “You're a good man, Derek. You've done well by this pack, by my son, and anyone who says otherwise is a liar, you hear me? Stiles is alive because of you, several times over. Hell, all of these kids are. Scott is an Alpha now, for Christ's sake. Do you think that ever would have happened if he didn't have you here, showing him the ropes?”

Derek snorted again, this time more self-deprecating and less amused. “I don't know how much Stiles told you about back then, but he and Scott almost died multiple times because of me; Because of choices that I made.”

“I know more than you think, son.” John assured, one brow hiked in challenge. “And I also know that, despite whatever mistakes were made on all accounts, this pack, _your_ pack, is still here, and they are thriving.”

Derek stayed silent, unable to come up with an argument against the Sheriff's words. 

“My point is, you and Stiles are good for each other. I may be an old man, Derek, but even I can see the way you fit.”

“You're not... Aren't you angry that he's so young?” Derek questioned apprehensively.

It was John's turn to snort. “Did Stiles ever tell you how his mother and I met?”

Derek shook his head, mouth turned down in curiosity. 

“Claudia was a student in one of the self-defense classes I taught at the rec center.” Derek's face must have registered his surprise because the Sheriff smirked and shrugged one shoulder before continuing, “My father was the Sheriff back then, and he hated that I wanted to follow him into the office. So, he made me a deal: If I taught self-defense for a year after I got accepted to the academy, and still wanted to be a cop afterward, he'd write me a letter of recommendation. I guess he thought that after hearing some of the horror stories, some of the reasons people needed my class, I'd change my mind. I doubt he was counting on me meeting my future wife.”

“Let me guess, love at first sight?” Derek grinned, imagining it.

John startled him with a bright bark of laughter. “Hardly. Hell, we couldn't stand each other in the beginning. She was mouthy and insubordinate, had a cutting sense of humor and a tongue sharp as a blade. I thought she was obnoxious, and she thought I was too uptight.”

“What changed?” 

“Nothing, honestly.” John rubbed a hand across his mouth. Derek didn't miss the sadness swirling under the fond memories. “She stayed just as abrasive as she ever was, and before I knew what happened, I was head over heels in love with her. Claudia, she had this way of pulling you in, you know? Even when I wanted to strangle her, I wanted to kiss her. That's just the type of person she was. Drove me insane, but I would have done anything for her.”

“Sounds familiar.” Derek muttered softly.

“Stiles is a lot like his mother.” the Sheriff agreed. “Which, incidentally, is why I'm telling you all of this. When Claudia and I met, she was sixteen and I was twenty.”

Derek's eyes went wide as he met John's amused gaze. “Really?”

John nodded. “I was her teacher, though, and there were lines. Until she finished the class, and then all bets were off. My father ripped me a new one, and her parents hated me, but that didn't change anything between us. We snuck around, anyway.” His face grew serious at that and he gave Derek a significant look. “I don't want Stiles sneaking around behind my back, Derek. I trust him to know what, or who, it is that he wants, and I trust you to respect his choices. I don't need anything more than that.”

“I- Thank you, John.”

The Sheriff gave Derek another clap on the back, his eyes still harboring affection and warmth that made Derek's chest ache with memories. “That being said; If you ever do anything to hurt my son, I have wolfsbane rounds and an entire department to alibi me out.”

Derek nearly choked on his tongue, had to cough to clear his throat. “I understand, Sheriff.” he croaked, then added, “But, you should know... If I ever hurt Stiles, if I ever did anything to hurt him like that, I'd want you to put me down.”

“As long as we're on the same page.” John smiled, wide and genuine. “Now, I don't know about you, son, but I could use a drink.” he said, heading for the balcony door. 

“Yeah.” Derek returned the smile, following John inside. “A drink sounds good.”


	15. I So Hate Consequences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Hey, Lovelies. Your response to the last chapter was amazing! I know it hurt, Derek feels always do, but I want to thank you all for sticking with me. This chapter is a little lighter, though not by a whole lot. I promise, the payoff at the end will be worth all of this angst and suffering.
> 
> -Chapter title from the song of the same name by Relient K
> 
> Also, in case you're interested, I'm [littlered-sourwolf](http://littlered-sourwolf.tumblr.com/) over on tumblr. Come talk fics and headcanons, rant with me about whatever, or just babble at my askbox. It's all good with me :)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **  
> _**Trigger Warning for depiction of a panic attack in this chapter.**_  
> **

Waking up with his eyes and mouth feeling as though he'd been bobbing for apples in a bucket full of finely ground gravel was quickly becoming a regular habit, and one Stiles was none too eager to continue indulging. His chest no longer felt like it contained a raging inferno within its depths, though it continued to ache in a way that told Stiles he wasn't healing as as quickly as he'd grown accustomed. He tried shifting a little against the cool cotton sheets beneath him, but stopped when his movement triggered an avalanche of pain. A full grown pachyderm could have been making a home on his chest for all Stiles knew, the swell of pain and pressure was that intense.

“Fucking owww.” he groaned, closing his eyes more tightly against the light bleeding through his lids.

“A bullet to the chest will do that to you, kiddo.” came the gruff reply from somewhere to his left.

Stiles cracked open one eye, peering in the direction of his dad's voice. “Hey, Pops.” he croaked, his voice cracked and scratchy from sleep and abuse. “Long time, no see?”

The Sheriff heaved a heavy sigh, his tired face creasing into a reluctant smile. “Not that long, you've only been out about eighteen hours. How do you feel?”

Attempting to press one hand into the soft mattress beneath him to lever himself up, every muscle in Stiles' body throbbed in protest. His chest hurt the most, the newly knitted skin tugging and pulling as he haltingly pushed himself upright and propped his back against Derek's cushioned headboard. 

“Like I got hit by a truck.” he told his father honestly, rubbing the heel of his hand into the valley between his pecs, trying to soothe some of the ache, while carefully avoiding the unhealed hole just to the right of where his heart was. He could feel the slippery glide of the healing balm slicking his skin beneath his t-shirt, could smell the thick scent of Adder's Tongue and cedar clinging to his skin. “A really big truck, or maybe a smallish train. Sore, is my point.”

“Well, considering Deaton pulled a shifter-specific slug out of you yesterday, you're lucky you're breathing.” John said, his tone reproving. “What the hell did you thing you were doing, Stiles? You could have gotten yourself killed! And, for what? What did you accomplish, other than igniting a war?”

Stiles flinched, his pulse kicking up. He didn't think that was entirely fair, not since Jackson was actually the first one to kill a Kearney, but he didn't think his father wanted to hear his argument just then.

“Can I maybe have a glass of water before you ream me out?” he requested quietly, his head hanging down.

John huffed but got up and disappeared into the bathroom. Only then did Stiles notice that he was in Derek's bedroom, laid out in the center of Derek's giant bed like he belonged there. He filed that information away to inspect more closely at a later date when his father came back and handed him a little paper cup full of water.

Stiles sipped it slowly, buying himself an extra moment or two of silence before the yelling began. With a deep breath, as deep as he could draw with his chest as tight as it was, Stiles met his father's eye.

“I'm sorry, Dad.” he apologized, hoping his wide, innocent eyes still had some sway with the Sheriff. “I know you don't understand, but I couldn't risk anyone else getting hurt.”

“Oh, I understand.” John snapped, his voice wavering with the stress of trying to stop himself from shouting. “I understand that you have absolutely no self-preservation instincts, whatsoever. I understand that you would rather sacrifice yourself than to trust your pack. I understand perfectly that you have no regard for your own God damned life, or for how we would all feel if you let yourself die in our places- How I would feel if I lost you, too.”

“Dad-”

“No, Stiles.” John bit out, his cheeks flushed with anger, eyes round with fear. “You are done with this shit, do you understand me? You are done playing the martyr and risking your neck. If you ever, _ever_ , pull that crap again, I'm going to find every comic book and superhero movie in Beacon Hills, and throw them into the nearest volcano, and then kick your ass from here to Guadalajara. Are. We. Clear.”

A long beat passed in oppressive silence, the only sound in the room the Sheriff's harsh breaths as they rattled their way past his lips.

“Yeah, Dad. Crystal clear.” Stiles answered in a small voice, his eyes watering and fixed on the peaks of his toes beneath the blanket tucked up around his waist.

A soft, wounded sound fell from John's lips, and in the next breath Stiles found himself crushed against his father's chest, the Sheriff's arms a steel band around his shoulders. 

“I'm sorry, Dad.” he choked, clinging to his father as though one or both of them were going to disappear if he didn't hold on hard enough. 

“I know you are, kiddo.” John sighed and pressed a kiss to his son's hair. “Just... Stop, okay? Promise me.”

“I promise.” Stiles agreed immediately, meaning it with every fiber of his being. If this was what his father needed, if a promise that Stiles would stop knowingly putting himself in harm's way was all he needed to give in order to wipe away the fear and pain in his father's eyes, Stiles was willing to give it.

Unconsciously, he dragged his cheek against his father's neck, scent marking him while drawing a deep breath at the same time. His brows furrowed in confusion when the only scents he caught were the Sheriff's aftershave and the faint scent of coffee, even when he focused.

Stiles pulled out of his dad's embrace, his mouth pulled down in a deep frown. “What-”

“Turns out, actions do have consequences.”

Stiles' head shot up and he winced when the move jarred the wound in his chest. Derek stood in the doorway, arms folded over his chest like a shield, a scowl hardening his features. 

“Derek, I'm-”

“Lydia's on her way up.” Derek announced, cutting Stiles off and making his blood chill in his veins. Derek's tone was closed off and distant, angry in a way that had Stiles remembering days he thought to be long past. “She can explain what's going on.”

“You mean why I still have a hole in my chest and can't feel my wolf?” Stiles ground out, realizing as he said it how painfully true it was. 

He couldn't feel the hum of magic in his veins that had been present since he was turned, and its absence made his gut roll with nausea, a heavy ball of dread sitting in the pit of his stomach. There was no push of his wolf inside him, no glimmer or remnant of the other half of his soul. In its place, in the hollow space behind his ribs, there was a chasm of emptiness that used to hold the well of energy and magic that was his wolf. There was a deadened lack of everything that made Stiles who he was now, a cold and excruciating nothingness where there should have been his wolf and...

“Oh my God.” Stiles gasped, air shredding his lungs on the inhale. “Derek, I can't feel you. Why can't I feel you anymore? What- _Derek_.”

Panic crested high in Stiles' throat, clawed at his tongue and made his mouth go dry. His heart thudded an agonizing beat in his chest as he tried to cast out his senses, desperately seeking some vestige of their bond. When he felt nothing, imaginary fingers grasping at thin air, Stiles entire body felt the loss.  
Derek's expression melted from solid ice to distressed understanding before it began swimming before Stiles' eyes. 

“Shit.” Derek's voice only made the absence in Stiles' head feel more like a yawning canyon. “Stiles, breathe.”

Lungs constricting like they were actively having the air sucked out of them, Stiles tried to dredge up memories of coping methods taught to him by the slew of counselors forced upon him after his mother's death. He couldn't think, couldn't force his brain out of the loop it had cemented itself into; a repetitive track of _It's gone, He's gone. You're alone in here again, just like before._

“No.” Stiles choked on the single syllable, felt it lodge in his throat, twist and mangle into a broken gurgle, his breathing hindered by both the panic attack and the gunshot wound in his chest.

“Stiles.” Derek's tone was demanding, his hands replacing Stiles' father's against his skin. “Listen to my voice, Stiles. I'm right here.”

Derek's hands were on Stiles, rough and commanding his attention as they framed his panic-stricken face. Stiles tried to focus his vision, to see through the moisture brimming in his eyes and collecting in his lash line, but only managed to blur his sight further. He was shaking his head in denial, the room around him going dark and tilted.

Several minutes passed in which all Stiles could do was fight the invasive thoughts burrowing in his mind, and hope that someone would catch him if he passed out. Suddenly, a solid, rhythmic tapping broke through the fog inside his head, demanding his focus. Stiles latched onto the sensation, let it carry through him, deep down into the space left by the missing half of himself. Slowly, Stiles' breath began to sync with the tapping. He realized even more slowly that the tapping was coming from the steady thump of fingers over his heart, and that those fingers belonged to Derek.

“Derek.” Stiles whispered, incapable of putting volume into the name.

“I'm right here, Stiles. I've got you, just breathe for a minute, okay?” Derek said, his chest rumbling against Stiles' back serving to further anchor Stiles into himself.

Glancing around with bleary eyes, Stiles discovered that they were alone now, his father apparently having given them privacy when a fully blown panic attack had become inevitable. Derek had climbed onto the bed, wedging himself into the space between Stiles' back and the headboard, his legs bracketing Stiles in, his arms wrapped around Stiles' chest so that he could tap out the soothing pattern with his fingers over Stiles' heart.

After a long silence, Stiles finally deemed himself able to speak again. “Why can't I feel you?” he asked, his voice shaky with fear. “It's wrong, Derek.”

Derek held Stiles as he shuddered, let him lean more heavily into the warm wall of his chest. He pressed his lips to Stiles' temple, his lips scraping Stiles' skin as he said, “I know. Trust me, I feel it, too.” He took a deep breath, squeezing Stiles reassuringly before he explained, “The Kearney's have bullets that disconnect you from your wolf. All of your abilities are nearly non-existent, and will stay that way until we find an antidote.”

“How? That's not- It doesn't make sense.” Stiles whined softly, nuzzling into Derek's jaw and wincing when he tried to turn his torso so that he could wrap himself around Derek.

“Sit still.” Derek ordered gently, though he was already lifting Stiles delicately, moving him around so that Stiles was sitting sideways across Derek's lap and could get his face into the curve of Derek's neck. Stiles might be experiencing the absence of his wolf, but that didn't mean that his instincts were gone. The need to be close to his mate, to his pack, was still strong. “Lydia can explain better when she gets here. Just... try to stay calm, okay?” Derek murmured, fingers on one hand stroking soothingly up and down Stiles' back, while his other hand fell to curl around his hip.

Stiles nodded into Derek's throat, muscles going slack when the hand on his hip began to draw out his pain. “Don' have t'do that.” he mumbled, the familiar protestation falling flat as he relaxed into the touch.

“Shut up, Stiles.” Derek sighed softly, his lips pressing into Stiles' hair as he hitched him closer. 

Stiles hummed his agreement sleepily, already feeling the tug of the pain sucking's sedative-like effects. He barely managed to whisper, “Stay?” before his eyes drooped shut.

He was mostly asleep the next time Derek spoke, wasn't even sure he heard it at all when Derek whispered, “Always.” and pressed his nose behind his ear.

 

*

 

Stumbling weakly down the spiral staircase, Stiles was greeted with Scott's concerned face and Isaac's understanding eyes. He was thankful they let him finish the descent on his own and didn't try to coddle him. Feeling as weak and fractured as he already was, Stiles didn't think he could handle everyone treating him like he was made of glass, or worse, like he was human.

Being human wasn't anything to be ashamed of, and Stiles would be the first one to argue that. The truth of it was simply that Stiles had adjusted to being a werewolf. He'd slipped into the wolf's skin like he'd always belonged there, had gotten used to the power and strength that came with it. Going from human to wolf had been relatively easy and painless. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for the reverse. Adjusting to being- for all intents and purposes -human after having been a wolf was much more difficult.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Stiles swayed in place, a wave of vertigo making his head go fuzzy for a second. Scott reached for him but Stiles swatted him away, a petulant and pathetically human growl vibrating in his chest and making him wince.

“I got it.” he gritted, shuffling awkwardly across the living room as Lydia came down the steps behind him. 

Stiles eased himself down onto the sofa beside his father while Lydia drew Scott aside, their voices low and incomprehensible to Stiles' ears. It was frustrating, but he turned his attention to his father and Isaac, who had plopped down in the chair across from them.

“Is your,” Stiles waved an inarticulate hand at Isaac's shoulder, where the hunter's bullet had embedded itself, “healed? You don't look like you're in a whole lot of pain.”

Isaac shrugged the uninjured shoulder. “My pain tolerance is really high. The salves and shit that Lydia insists Scott and Allison keep slathering on me, they help, and Scott draws the pain whenever he can.” 

“Yeah.” Stiles scratched cautiously at the healing skin around his own wound, careful not to get too close to the newly healed skin. “Sucks, though.”

“You can take regular meds, now, too.” Isaac added, smiling comfortingly. “Deaton wrote you a 'script for Oxycodone. I think that's where Derek went.”

“You should heal in a day or two.” Lydia reminded him, again. She'd already gone over all of it with him upstairs, but apparently thought that it was necessary to repeat. “Your own healing is crap, at the moment, but that's what Deaton and I are for.”

“Right, thanks.” Stiles tried to smile up at her, but didn't think he managed to make it look natural.

Lydia leaned down to plant a kiss on his forehead, ruffling a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. “Stay off your feet and leave the research to me, got it?” she questioned, though it was more command than inquiry, Stiles' chin caught between her fingers. “Don't make me come back here and scream you into submission.”

“Yes, Ma'am.” He did smile then, which he figured was probably Lydia's intention all along.

Once Lydia left, going to Deaton's to meet Boyd, Jackson, and Allison for research, Stiles turned to Scott. “So? What's the lowdown, man? Where do we stand with the Kearney's?” 

The Sheriff rolled his eyes, but knew better than to try and argue with his son's thirst for information.

Scott hesitated, but folded himself onto the floor by Isaac's feet and filled Stiles in. “Malia, Kira, and Liam tracked them back to a foreclosed property right outside our eastern border. They've been holed up their since yesterday, and they're pissed.”

“Well, yeah. I mean, we've killed more than a few of their hunters and they can't seem to level the score.” Stiles reasoned, leaning a little to the side so he could use the arm of the couch to prop himself up. 

“It's not just that.” Scott grimaced, looking at his hands.

Stiles frowned with his whole face. “What do you mean? What could piss them off more than a bunch of dead family members?”

“A dead Second.” Isaac spoke up, his hand coming to rest on Scott's shoulder.

“Carrick's Second is dead?” Stiles asked, mouth hanging open in surprise. “Who- How?”

“It turns out that the hunter's that set up camp at the Ironworks were led by Sean.” Scott explained, eyes never leaving his fidgeting hands. “They figured that the pack wouldn't venture anywhere near it, banked on us knowing better than to fuck with all that iron.” 

Stiles ignored the dark look his father aimed his way, listening intently while Scott talked. He had no doubt that Parrish spilled the beans about Stiles' plan, guessing that little fact was the reason his father and Derek were so angry with him. 

“They wanted to have a home base inside the territory, somewhere safe that they could get to quick if a fight went sideways. Sean was supposed to keep his head down and report back with our movements. After the thing with Isaac, when Jackson killed the other hunter, Carrick ordered Sean to fall back and wait for orders. You and Parrish showed up, and I guess Sean decided to defy his directive.”

“Okay.” Stiles chewed his bottom lip, letting the new information settle in. “So, Sean was among the hunters that attacked me and Parrish. It was self-defense, right?”

“It doesn't matter. According to Kira, Carrick is on a rampage. Sean wasn't just his Second, Stiles.” Scott said softly, his eyes finally lifting to meet Stiles' gaze. “He was Carrick's son.”

“Well, fuck.” Stiles sighed, scrubbing a hand across his face. “That makes things a shit ton more complicated. Do we know what he's planning as far as retaliation?”

Scott's irises glowed Red, a rumbling growl building in his chest. “Yes.”

“Well?” Stiles pressed, trying to shift forward but stopping when his father splayed a hand against his shoulder and pushed him back. “Come on, Scott, what're we in for here? We're down two wolves, dude, we need to have a game plan for when shit goes down.”

“Carrick wants revenge for his son's death, Stiles!” Scott snarled, shocking Stiles into silence. Scott wasn't a yeller, not when he didn't have to be. Raising his voice was a last ditch effort, in most cases. “This isn't just about taking out the pack, anymore. He knows who killed Sean, and he's not going to stop until he captures you!”

Stiles opened his mouth to respond, an argument on his tongue, but stopped when Scott's words sank in. He felt the blood drain from his face, his stomach flipping over on itself as his father's words about igniting a war rang through his head. “Wait, what? Me?!”

Scott was breathing raggedly, his chest heaving with anger. Stiles' dad squeezed his shoulder and Isaac was the one who answered, “It was you, Stiles. You're the one that killed Sean.”


	16. The Things You Can't Get Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's some Stiles feels in this chapter, but it's not nearly as bad as the last few. There's also some Batman and Catwoman bonding, some Sterek cuteness, and some good old-fashioned OG Hale pack stuff.
> 
> Enjoy!

Sitting at the little stainless steel island in Derek's kitchen, Stiles aimlessly pushed baby carrots around his plate with a shaky hand and ignored his sandwich entirely. Scott and his father had ganged up on him, guilted him into at least attempting to eat something.

“You have to keep your strength up, Stiles.” Scott had pouted, all pleading puppy-dog eyes and sincere concern. “Your body needs nutrients to heal.”

Stiles fought back his pissy response by sheer force of will, had allowed his father to usher him into the kitchen and fix him a roast beef sandwich. Isaac could be blamed for the carrots, but Stiles thought he was just trying to appease Scott and he could respect that, at least.

Thankfully, they hadn't hovered. They left Stiles in peace, or relative quiet anyway, and returned to the living room. Regardless, one look at his meal had Stiles' stomach heaving. How could everyone expect him to eat, to stomach even the thought of food, when his mind was still trying to process everything thrown his way in the last hour?

As if waking up with a hole in chest- both figuratively and literally -wasn't bad enough, Stiles' entire body ached in a bone-deep sort of way. He felt jittery and feverish, his bones too heavy and his skin too tight. Lydia had explained that it was the metal in his blood that had him feeling strange, like he was trapped inside his own body with no way out, his blood running just a few degrees hotter than normal through his veins. 

Then, of course, came the almost crippling loss of his bond with Derek. It made almost no sense that he should feel so lost without something he'd only had for such a short while, but the bond wasn't just a _thing_. Not having access to his wolf was one thing; Stiles still knew that he was in there somewhere, caught in an iron cage. The bond though, that was different. The bond was a physical and emotional link from one soul to another. It was a diamond thread that tied Stiles and Derek together, blew open the doors and crumbled the barriers between them, made them just as much a part of each other as they were themselves. To experience something so profound, something that altered him down to his very core, and then lose it? The loss was painful on an unfathomable scale, left Stiles with a sense of being set adrift in deep space.

Pile on the fact that he'd killed Sean and was now Numero Uno on Carrick's list of people to eviscerate at the first opportunity, and Stiles was batting a solid zero in the great ballgame of life. He wasn't sure what was worse; The knowledge that he'd escalated things to the point where an out and out war was almost inevitable, or the memory that kept ramming into the forefront of his mind; the memory Stiles really could have lived without ever having to relive. A flash of deep green eyes and sandy-brown hair, an angry sneer of a mouth and the barrel of a gun. 

It was the eyes, he thought, that haunted him most of all. Eyes wide with fear and glinting with ingrained hatred, set in a face so much younger than it had any right to be. Eyes that reflected shock that a werewolf, a veritable abomination, could ever manage to get the upper hand over a righteous hunter.

How was Stiles supposed to go about processing any of it? More importantly, where exactly did one start trying to cope with the fact that they'd taken someone's life, and would do it again without a moment's hesitation? 

Stiles had never been directly responsible for someone's death. His body had been used to commit atrocities, to impale Scott and build a bomb that killed half of his father's deputies- among a whole list of other crimes -but Stiles hadn't been in control then. He'd seen the destruction with his own eyes, watched as his hands inflicted immeasurable damage, but he hadn't been the one running the show at the time.

On a few other occasions Stiles' negligence- purposeful or accidental -had led to someone's demise, but he'd never actively, deliberately killed another person. One could even argue that the incident with Peter and Lydia's Molotov cocktails hadn't been a death directly attributed to Stiles' hand. Not when Derek had delivered the killing blow and Peter hadn't had the decency to stay dead, anyway.

Stiles had advocated for people's deaths, had witnessed them and rooted for them, even applauded them in a few cases; Kate's, most notably. Hell, Stiles had asked Scott and Allison to kill and/or let _Derek_ die on multiple occasions, back in the beginning. So, it wasn't like Stiles was morally opposed to death when the situation called for it, or even staunchly against being the one to take a life in defense of someone he loved.

Still, the knowledge that he was single-handedly responsible for Sean's death, for taking a man's son away from him... It made Stiles' gut roil with guilt and something that felt uncomfortably close to pity for Carrick. 

“It's the shock.” Derek's voice jarred Stiles out of his internal struggle, had him flailing in place and flinging a baby carrot across the kitchen. “It'll pass.”

“Jesus, dude, make some noise when you walk.” Stiles huffed, shoving his trembling hands between his thighs in the hopes that Derek hadn't seen them shake.

“I did.” Derek said patiently, crossing the room to pick up the carrot that had landed somewhere by the refrigerator. “Scuffed my heels and everything.”

“Yeah, well, my ears ain't what they used to be.” Stiles snarked, using his thumb nail to trace the inseam of his jeans. 

Derek tossed the projectile carrot into the garbage before pulling a prescription bottle out of the inside pocket of his jacket. He uncapped it and shook out a single pill, then set the pill on the counter beside Stiles' water. 

“Take that when you finish eating.” he directed, pocketing the bottle once more.

“What am I, twelve? I've been taking Adderall since I was eight, Derek. I think I can be trusted with my own medication.” 

“Stop bitching and eat, Stiles.” Derek replied evenly. He turned his back on Stiles then, set about taking off his jacket and tossing it over a stool. “How do you feel?”

Stiles stayed quiet, eyeballing the pill Derek gave him and weighing the pros and cons of actually attempting to eat some of his sandwich before he took it. 

Derek seemed to take more from his silence than Stiles meant to give.

“Scott told you.” Derek said, not making it a question and not bothering to turn around. He was rifling absently through a cabinet beside the fridge, a cabinet Stiles knew to hold nothing but a plethora of glasses and coffee mugs. 

Again, Stiles held his tongue. He snatched up the pain medication and swallowed it swiftly, raising virtuous eyebrows when Derek glanced over his shoulder at him. 

Derek cocked a challenging brow in return, asking, “Trustworthy with medication?”

“Bite me.” Stiles grinned, for one brief moment feeling the weight of the day lift off his shoulders. But, as these things usually have a way of doing, it all crashed back down on him after the momentary reprieve. His grin faltered and fell away, leaving in its place a wobbling bottom lip and a fresh bloom of guilt.

Derek sighed, closing the cabinet and moving across the kitchen to slide up onto the stool beside Stiles. He nudged his knee against the side of Stiles' thigh, tucked one hand between them so he could tangle their fingers together. “If you want to talk about it, we can do that.” he said, voice low so it stayed between them. “If you want to lay on my couch and watch Firefly, pretend for a little while that none of this is happening, we can do that, too. But, eventually, you're going to have to use your words.”

Stiles snorted dryly, kept his eyes fixed on where their hands were pressed between his thighs. “I don't know if there are even words for what's going on in my head right now, Derek.”

“Believe it or not, I'm familiar with that particular problem.” Derek smiled, small and soft. It made Stiles' belly flip for a whole other reason, and he was glad to feel something that wasn't shame or regret. “Look, I get it, okay? The first is always the hardest. It changes things; takes things, important things, away from you, and puts other stuff in their place. It doesn't really matter if it was self-defense, if they'd have killed you and not even blinked. It's still a life lost, a life you are solely responsible for ending.”

Swallowing tightly, Stiles blinked hard against the heat in his eyes. “He was someone's son, Der.” he confided, his ribs aching anew. 

Derek squeezed his fingers, rubbed soothing circles into Stiles' wrist with his thumb. “I know, and that's an unfortunate by-product of war, Stiles. People die and families are broken. But, we didn't start this war, they did when they shot Isaac. Carrick knew what he was risking, bringing his people here and going after our pack.”

“Then why does it feel so shitty?” Stiles asked around the clicking in his throat.

“Because you're a good man, Stiles. You care about people, even when they don't deserve it. Sometimes it's the right thing, sometimes it's not, but it is who you are. No one knows your capacity for misplaced compassion quite like I do.” Derek said, tone serious though there was teasing in his voice.

Stiles turned his head, glanced at Derek from the corner of his eye. “I wasn't wrong about you.”

Derek shrugged. “You've always had good instincts.”

A dry laugh caught in Stiles' throat and he leaned his shoulder into Derek's chest. Derek parted his legs to let Stiles in between, lifted his chin so Stiles could push his head under it and get his face pressed right into his throat. 

“Feeling this way is normal.” Derek whispered, closing his eyes and letting Stiles' scent flood his senses. Despite the scent of metal, a little bit like old coins, he still smelled like Stiles; wolf and all. “Just don't let it consume you, okay? You did the right thing. You protected yourself from someone who wanted you dead, and there's no shame in saving yourself for once, instead of trying to save the world.”

“I don't want to save the world,” Stiles grumbled into Derek's throat, “I just want to save the pack.”

“Boys?” 

Derek and Stiles both turned their attention to the doorway, though neither of them bothered to move away from the other.

The Sheriff stood there in his uniform, his eyes taking in the pair of them and the corner of his mouth lifting. “I've got to head into the station.”

“Okay, Dad.” Stiles smiled tiredly, not wanting to let his father see the extent of his turmoil. “Be safe.”

“Always am.” John answered. “Get some rest, you hear me? Derek, you call me if there's any news.”

Derek nodded his affirmation, smiled when his chin bumped the top of Stiles' head and he grunted. John rolled his eyes and turned to leave, calling an I love you over his shoulder as he headed for the door. Scott appeared a moment later, eyes fixed on Stiles.

“Isaac and I have to head out, too.” he announced. “Parrish is working tonight, so your dad is covered, and Kira is at the hospital with my mom until her shift ends. One of the pack will be outside at all times, but I doubt Carrick will try anything tonight.”

“Why not?” Stiles wondered, knowing that it if it were him, he'd want his child's killer dead before they got a chance to see the sun.

“It's the night before the full moon.” Scott reminded him, his eyes conveying how much he understood the pained set to Stiles' mouth at that. “Not enough of us have been hit for him to risk attacking until the moon is over.”

“So, we have a little over forty-eight hours to come up with a plan.” Stiles scrubbed at his face, leaning away from Derek and flinching when his wound throbbed its objection. He tried not to think about the fact that he couldn't feel the moon like he was used to, though its arrival definitely explained why he felt so shocky and confined. He tried not to let himself think about the fact that he wouldn't be able to test out his anchor and shift for the moon's peak the following night, that he wouldn't get to do the full moon run with the pack as he'd hoped to do now that he had Derek.

“We'll figure it out, bro, I promise.” Scott vowed, his jaw set determinedly. “I'll call you in a few hours.”

Stiles stared after Scott as he left, brow furrowed. “What did I miss?” he questioned, turning his attention back to Derek. “He didn't even look at you. What's going on?”

Derek's shoulders drooped, making Stiles frown. “It's not a big deal, don't worry about it.”

“My boyfriend and my brother won't even look at each other, and I'm not supposed to worry about that?” 

One heavy eyebrow lifted sassily, Derek smirked, “Boyfriend, huh?”

Stiles huffed a laugh. “Yes, boyfriend. It doesn't sound quite as primal as Mate, okay? Deal with it, and don't change the subject.”

Sighing, Derek got up from his stool and walked around to the cabinet that held the mugs, again. “Scott's angry with me for letting you get hurt. It's nothing, Stiles, just let it go. We'll be fine in a few days.”

“Aww, my loyal Scottie. Such a good bro. He's wrong, of course, but I won't hold it against him. I mean, it's sweet of him to be all concerned and protective or whatever, but what happened wasn't your fault.” Stiles said, making sure Derek could hear the sincerity in his words.

Derek set a mug on the counter, the obnoxiously big Chewbacca mug that Stiles bought him for his birthday the year before, and filled the kettle with water before putting it on to boil. “We're supposed to protect each other, Stiles. You might not like the terminology, but that's what Mates do. I failed to do that, and Scott has a right to his anger; as your brother, and our Alpha.”

“I get all of that, I really, really do.” Stiles acquiesced easily. “Scott would be pissed at a bee if it was ballsy enough to sting me, dude, that's just who he is. He's always had my back, even when I'm the one in the wrong. But, I think part of him is still struggling to see me as a wolf, instead of his breakable, human best friend.”

Derek bit his lips together to stop himself admitting that he, too, suffered from that problem every now and then. It was getting easier the longer he spent around Stiles, the more he got to see the fluidity and gracefulness Stiles embodied as a wolf as compared to the measured chaos he exuded as a human. Still, it was a slow adjustment.

“Anyway,” Stiles continued, heedless of Derek's silence, “He'll get over it. And if he doesn't, I'll just have to remind him that Isaac was hit with one of these bullets, too, and he couldn't stop it. I mean, Scott has to know what it feels like, knowing you couldn't protect the person you love. The overprotective thing is cute, but-”

“It's because I was there and he wasn't!” Derek snapped, his own guilty temper crackling in the air around him as his fists clenched, nearly popping the seam on the tea bags in his hand. “I was in the woods when the Kearney's attacked you. I was close enough that I should have been able to protect you, to stop Sean and his men from doing this to you, but I didn't.”

“It's not your fault, Der.” Stiles repeated, his voice soft though it was backed with steel. “What happened was a fucked up convergence of stupid choices and shit-tastic luck. I know you would have done anything, given anything to stop it, but it happened, and it's done, and it is in no way your fault.”

Derek turned around then, finally met Stiles' intense gaze. “Even if you believe that-”

“I do.”

“It doesn't change the way Scott and I feel about it.”

Stiles shrugged, mouth twisted in a what-can-you-do frown. “Then you're both idiots. Which, I already knew, so... Wanna cuddle on the couch and wait for the apocalypse?”

Derek couldn't help the smile that curled his lips anymore than he could stop the flood of affection that made his skin flush with warmth. “Who am I to argue with a plan like that?”

 

*

 

Jerking awake from a dream drenched in blood and destruction, Stiles made a soft noise of discomfort when the mostly closed hole in his chest throbbed. The pain drained away before he could even draw another breath, and Stiles sighed at the feeling of Derek's fingers splayed wide in the small of his back. 

“Sorry,” Derek apologized, sliding his phone onto the coffee table while trying not to jostle Stiles, whose face was smashed into his chest. “It was just Boyd, he needs a ride. You want to come?”

“Who's outside?” Stiles questioned drowsily, not even attempting to slide out of the V of Derek's thighs, where he'd fallen asleep less than halfway through the first episode of their marathon. 

“Erica.” Derek told him, his fingers kneading gently at Stiles' spine. “She and Boyd are gonna crash here for the night.”

“Tell her to come up.” Stiles yawned and let Derek help him upright. 

Erica was taking Derek's place on the sofa less than five minutes later and Derek was kissing Stiles goodbye, a hand curled around the back of his neck. “I'll be right back.”

“Bring me dinner!” Erica called at his back, grinning when Derek flipped her off before he pulled the door shut. She turned to Stiles, eyes appraising as they slid over him. “How's the battle wound, dumbass?”

Stiles snorted, shifting around carefully so he could stretch back out and pillow his head in Erica's lap. Her fingers threaded through his hair almost before he'd even settled, and he smiled his thanks up at her. “Remember that time I accidentally shot you with Chris' spare?”

Erica's laugh vibrated right through him. She flicked him playfully on the nose, earning herself a grin in return. “Vividly.”

“Well, that's where I was at this morning. Now, it's more like I got kicked in the chest by a donkey. At least it's closed, though. I should be good by morning.”

“Good.” Erica sighed, tilting her head back against the couch so that she was looking up at the ceiling. “We can't have you benched this time, Stiles.”

“I know.” 

“It's going to get ugly. Like, uglier than a glamorless Darach, ugly.” 

Stiles closed his eyes, leaned into Erica's belly with his cheek. “I know.”

“Tell me we're gonna get out of this one, Stiles. Just... Please?” 

Stiles hated the worry in Erica's voice, hated the vulnerability he could feel rolling off her skin even through the threadbare denim of her jeans and the rigid satin of her corset top.

“We're going to find a way out, Erica. All of us, okay?” he promised, reaching up to wrap one hand around the arm she had draped over his stomach. 

He could feel it when she took a deep breath, blew it out shakily. “Okay.”

 

*

 

By the time Derek and Boyd made their way back into the loft, Stiles was sound asleep and Erica was playing Tetris on her phone, Stiles' hand still firmly holding onto her arm across his belly. 

Erica looked up when Derek tossed his jacket over the back of the couch by Stiles' feet.

“He been out this whole time?” Derek asked, his eyes sweeping the sleeping form curled on its side against Erica's hip.

“Pretty much.” she said quietly, closing out her game and tucking her phone under her thigh as Boyd came around the couch, re-positioning the bag of groceries in his arm so he could lean down and press a greeting kiss to her lips, before striding off into the kitchen, presumably to fix the dinner she'd requested. Erica turned her attention back to Derek. “Anything?”

Derek sank down onto the edge of the coffee table and scrubbed a hand over his face. Erica couldn't help but notice the deep lines around his mouth, lines that screamed out just how tired Derek truly was.

“Nothing yet.” Derek sighed, scratching at the hinge of his jaw, nails scraping over stubble he hadn't bothered with in days. “Lydia hasn't slept since yesterday. She's been reading nonstop, just trying to find something that can help them. Scott made her go home for the night, but she wasn't happy about it.”

Erica's gaze settled on Stiles' sleeping face, his eyes crinkled with pain, even then. “You know, I can't help but think he looks worse off than Isaac. I mean, you can hardly tell anything is wrong with Isaac, other than the occasional dizzy spell or scent of pain. Yet, Stiles still looks like he's dying. Even sound asleep, he reeks of pain.”

Derek hummed his agreement, able to smell the sharp tang of pain on Stiles since before he'd even woken up that morning. He could feel it, too, though it was muted and distant thanks to the connection issue between Stiles and his wolf.

“Isaac is in just as much pain.” Derek said, eyes lingering on Stiles' back, watching his breaths coming in a steady rise and fall. “He's just better at hiding it. Stiles... He's used to hiding the emotional hurt, you know? He can shove it down and pretend he's fine, and if you didn't know him, you'd believe it. But, he wears physical pain like a shroud. It clings to him, seeps out of every pore, every inch of skin. Isaac's different.”

“Because of his father.” Erica said, her voice going hard.

Derek nodded, reached out a hand to touch Stiles, to reassure himself that Stiles was there and whole, simply sleeping, but let it fall back into his lap. “Isaac learned to bury pain long before any of us were a part of his life. You'd never know it by looking at him, but Isaac is tougher than someone his age should ever have to be.”

Erica watched Derek for a minute, just let her eyes take in the soft expression he wore while his own gaze stayed glued to the heap of werewolf asleep in her lap. She'd never seen so much open affection on Derek's face; not for his Betas, not for his sister, not even for any of the women she'd seen him with. But, there it was, honest and raw in the way he couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from Stiles, the way he struggled not to reach out and touch with every second's passing. 

“It's good to see you like this.” Erica told him, her mouth quirking up on one side when Derek's eyebrows inched toward his hairline and he finally met her gaze. She laughed softly, careful not to dislodge Stiles. “I've never seen you smitten.” she teased.

“Smitten.” Derek wrinkled his nose, as if the word tasted foul on his tongue.

“Totally smitten.” Boyd's rumbling voice called back, quietly enough that only Erica and Derek could hear it.

Erica laughed again while Derek rolled his eyes. She didn't miss the blood tinging his ears and neck pink. “It's cute.” she assured, though that only made Derek scowl harder. “Stiles deserves someone to be smitten with him. You both do.”

Derek huffed, seemingly gearing himself up to argue, but deflated a second later. He let his head drop down toward his chest, a ghost of a smile reaching his lips despite his best efforts. “Thanks.” he muttered, and Erica thought he probably hoped she wouldn't hear it.

“You're welcome.” she beamed, the smile turning sharp before she added the caveat, “Just remember, if you hurt my Batman, I'll gouge your eyes out and give them to him as a present.”

Boyd's laughter echoed through the loft, Stiles stirred in Erica's lap but didn't fully wake, and Derek just sighed, “I knew I couldn't avoid that one forever.”


	17. Lay Me To Ruins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Okay, a couple of warnings here:
> 
> 1) The entire first section of this chapter is hella NSFW.
> 
> 2)That NSFW contains a bit of Dom/sub that you should all be aware of. It's not a full out scene, by any means or stretch of the imagination, and it's all entirely consensual and enthusiastically embraced, but I want to make sure you're comfortable with that before you read. ( _If you'd like a more thorough description, please see the end notes_.)
> 
> 3) There is a moment between Stiles and Derek where Derek puts a hand to Stiles' throat. It's not choking, but there is mild physical pressure applied, so if that makes you uncomfortable or is triggering for you, you might want to skip it.

After opening his eyes to find himself once more sprawled out in Derek's bed, knowing full well he'd fallen asleep on the couch almost as soon as he finished eating the homemade mac & cheese Boyd made for dinner, Stiles decided his boyfriend was probably the best thing to happen to him since Scott McCall shared his sandbox and a chocolate pudding cup with a four year old Stiles.

“I'm serious.” Stiles argued, tucked so firmly into the gentle slope of Derek's side they were practically melded together. He wiggled his hips and tangled their legs together that much more thoroughly, practically purring with how perfectly his thigh slotted in-between Derek's. “You're perfect for me, dude. I'm ruined for life, and it's all your fault.”

“Next time, I'll just leave you wherever you drop, then.” Derek huffed, though he didn't bother trying to extricate himself from the jumbled mess that was their limbs. If Stiles' declaration made his stomach quiver happily, there was no one else around to take notice.

Stiles twisted his fingers in the waistband of Derek's dark blue briefs, preventing him from the escape he hadn't even attempted. “So grumpy first thing in the morning.” he chided, warm, dry lips rasping the thin skin stretched over Derek's Adam's apple. 

Derek swallowed back the groan in his chest, let his eyelids flutter shut as his arm tightened around Stiles' back, his fingers clenching where they rested on the slight taper of Stiles' waist. “Stiles.” he warned, his voice gritty.

Stiles sighed, his exhalation dancing, humid and light across Derek's throat. “How is it possible for me to miss the feel of your hands on me this badly, when it's only been two days?” he questioned, the words breathy and deliberately low. 

Derek's cock, already hard with morning wood, pulsed its interest. He ignored it, along with the equally solid jab of Stiles' erection against the top of his thigh. “You were asleep for more than half that.” he reminded Stiles, instead. 

Which, maybe, might have been the opposite direction Derek had been trying to encourage Stiles toward, but his mind was rapidly filling with _ideas_ and he couldn't really be blamed for it.

Stiles smiled at the roughness in Derek's voice, the slight strain that carried over into his muscles as he struggled to reign in his body's response. “Well, I'm certainly awake now.” he noted, fingers trailing slowly down the broad expanse of Derek's naked chest. “You miss it, too, don't you, Der?” His hand continued down, slipping under the sheet spread across their lower halves. He mouthed gently at Derek's jaw, his teeth scraping the hinge just to savor the hitch in Derek's lungs.

“You're injured, Stiles.” Derek reminded him raggedly, tipping his head back despite himself. He knew better, he really did. Now wasn't the time to be indulging their baser instincts, allowing lust and the full moon to overwhelm the fact that Stiles was more than half-dead less than two days before.

Stiles nosed his way beneath Derek's jaw, followed the curve of it up so he could tease the shell of Derek's ear with his lips as his fingertips dipped under the band of Derek's underwear. “Doesn't even hurt.” 

They both knew he was lying. The scent of pain on Stiles was less potent than it had been, lighter than the night before, but it still lingered. It was, however, faint enough that if Stiles wanted to put up that particular front, Derek wasn't going to call him on it. Unless the scent spiked, in which case Derek would back off faster than Stiles could squawk out an objection.

“Derek, I swear to God, I'm okay. It's not that bad.” He wasn't actually lying about that much. He still ached somewhere down deep in his marrow, but it wasn't anywhere near as bad as it had been. Breathing didn't hurt anymore, and he could push his chest into Derek's side without wincing, so really, things could be considerably worse.

Turning a little, angling his body into Stiles' at his side, Derek's hips rocked hesitantly into the cup of Stiles' hand as it closed loosely around his length. “I don't want to hurt you, or make it worse-”

“You won't.” Stiles assured quickly, pulling back enough that he could look up into Derek's eyes. They were concerned, but dark all the same, pale green eaten up by deep black. “I promise, if it hurts, I'll tell you. I just... I need this, Derek. _We_ need this.”

Derek studied Stiles' face, let his ears hone in on the steady thump of his pulse. Stiles' cheeks were flushed, still wearing patches of brighter red from being pressed into Derek's chest while they slept. He looked so earnest, though, beneath the haze of lust in his eyes. 

The need to be close, to feel something that wasn't pain with someone he trusted, Derek understood it. So much had gone wrong over the last few days, had thrown them into a battle none of them wanted to fight. For Derek, all he wanted to do was stay tucked away in his den with his Mate, to spread Stiles out in his bed and take him apart slowly. He figured Stiles understood that, maybe felt the same way if the hand stroking over Derek's cock was any indication. If it was what Stiles needed, if it was what Derek could give him...

“Why don't we take a shower?” he offered, dipping his head to steal a long, slow kiss, morning breath be damned. 

Stiles arched a brow, but let Derek disentangle them and ease toward the opposite side of the bed. “Is this a sexy shower, or a purely-for-cleanliness shower? Because, I have to admit, I'm rooting pretty determinedly for the former.”

Derek shoved his briefs down his thighs, smirking when Stiles' eyes skimmed down his body only to stop at his crotch, his mouth falling open so his tongue could flick out at his bottom lip. “Get your ass out of bed and into the bathroom, Stiles.” Derek ordered, his heart flipping over in his chest when Stiles' eyes shot to his and widened, even as he rushed to comply.

It didn't take long for the bathroom to fill with steam, the shower running hot as Stiles stripped out of his underwear and tossed them toward the laundry basket without looking. He was too busy watching Derek, his eyes a heavy weight on Derek's skin while they watched as he moved around the bathroom, brushing his teeth and pulling a spare towel from a shelf behind the door. 

“I don't know why you ever bother wearing clothes.” Stiles said, the words garbled by the toothbrush in his mouth, an extra from the pack Derek kept in his medicine cabinet. “It should be illegal to cover all that up.” 

Derek grinned, coming up behind him and fitting his front to Stiles' back, dropping a kiss to his shoulder. “And yet, your father would still have to arrest me. Besides, who are you kidding? The first time you caught someone else looking, I'd have to restrain you.”

“That's probably accurate.” Stiles agreed after he spit and put his newly acquired toothbrush in the cup beside Derek's. He took a moment to appreciate the sight, before he allowed Derek to wind his arms around him and pull him back. Leaning into the hot wall of Derek's chest, he shuddered lightly when Derek's erection pushed in and made a home between his ass cheeks. Stiles let his head thunk down onto Derek's shoulder and his eyes slip shut. “And, while you holding me down is right at the top of my list of fantasies, I take it back. Naked!Derek is for my eyes only. Pack runs and shit not withstanding.”

Derek's growl rumbled in his chest, vibrating through Stiles to settle deep in his ribcage. Stiles' skin burned hot where Derek's fingers traced the outline of silver on his belly, his nerves sparking under the hand wrapped around his ribs. Even dampened by steam from the shower, his skin was throwing off heat that felt like it should sear on contact.

“I could do that.” Derek murmured into the dip of Stiles' clavicle, letting his pelvis trap Stiles between his body and the edge of the vanity, while his mouth worked leisurely at his neck. “Pin you to the mattress and fuck you through it.” Stiles moaned, deep and needy, but Derek continued, his lips leaving a trail of fire as they traveled over Stiles' skin. The hand on Stiles' belly slipped lower, not close enough to touch his cock but low enough that Stiles' breath stuttered hopefully. “Hold you up against a wall, fuck you until your knees are weak and your legs are trembling.”

“Derek.” Stiles whined, tilting his head away so that his throat was bared to Derek's teeth. 

Derek nipped sharply at Stiles' offered throat, just enough to pink the skin up. He skimmed the knuckles of his right hand down Stiles' length, his touch too light to accomplish anything other than pulling another whine from Stiles' mouth. 

“Is that what you want, Stiles?” he questioned, his voice coming out as though it'd been dragged over hot coals. He lifted his left hand, banding his arm diagonally around Stiles' chest, anchoring him tightly. “Or, maybe it's what you need.” His hand wrapped loosely around Stiles' throbbing cock, hot and leaking where it lanced up toward his belly. Stiles whimpered, writhed against Derek's chest and shoved his ass back to grind into Derek's lap. “I think that's it, don't you?” Derek growled, a possessive smirk twisting his lips. “Need me to make you feel grounded, anchored. You need me to cage you in, make you feel like you're not flying apart.”

“ _Yes_.” Stiles bit out, sharp and desperate, like he needed it but didn't want to have to admit it out loud. He was straining into Derek's hand, hips thrusting helplessly as his cock dragged through the slowly tightening channel of Derek's fist. “Fuck, Derek, yes, okay?”

“I'll do whatever you want, Stiles, you already know that.” Derek whispered, low and husky in Stiles' ear.

It was probably more of a confession than Derek really meant to give, but it didn't make the sentiment any less true. Stiles held Derek in the palm of his ridiculously attractive hands for the better part of their relationship, and they both knew it. Still, saying it out loud gave the words power; power that Derek hadn't meant to give up. The words were out there, though, and they couldn't be taken back, even if he wanted to take them. Which, oddly enough, Derek found he didn't want to do. With a shiver that tracked from his head to the soles of his feet, Derek realized that he was comfortable giving all of his power to Stiles, knowing wholeheartedly that Stiles would never, could never, use it against him.

Stiles was still fucking into Derek's fist, his cockhead slick and shiny with pre-come. “Please, Derek, please. I can't- I have to-”

“Shh.” Derek hushed him gently, tightening the hand around Stiles' length while simultaneously moving his other hand up to Stiles' throat. He didn't squeeze, just fit his hand beneath the jut of Stiles' jaw and pressed in until the flesh gave under his touch. Stiles gasped, his hips jerking into a stuttered rhythm as his body bowed and his heart thundered. 

“ _Fuck_.” It tore from Stiles' lips on a keening whine, high and reedy. Derek's grip was too dry, too rough on sensitive skin, but Stiles didn't care. It was good, so good, just feeling Derek's hands on him. He craved it, needed it like breathing. No matter how imperfect it was, it couldn't possibly have felt more right.

Derek growled, slid his hand higher until the tip of his thumb hooked behind the hinge of Stiles' jaw, his other four fingers digging lightly into the cords of Stiles' neck on the opposite side. “Come on, Stiles. I've got you.” Derek hadn't noticed when his own hips started moving, wasn't sure when they slipped into the fractured tempo Stiles set. But, they were following Stiles' lead, his cock trapped in the cleft of Stiles' ass, the slide a little easier for the pearly wetness that dribbled from his slit and the sweat building on their skin.

The sounds spilling from Stiles' mouth were obscene, made all the more delicious for the way Derek could feel them rising up under his hand, vibrating in Stiles' throat and beneath his touch before they broke free. Derek's head was full of those decadent sounds, punctuated by the undiluted scent of Stiles' arousal, blended with his own and filling the room more densely than the steam pouring out of the shower stall.

It didn't take much more than a dozen pistons of Stiles' hips before he was coming hard, spilling over Derek's fist with a bitten off cry that warbled in his throat as his eyes rolled back. He shuddered and fell heavily back into Derek's body, trusting him to keep them both standing as he simply sagged, every ounce of energy sapped from his limbs.

“Fucking- We didn't even make it to the shower.” he muttered a few minutes later, when he finally reclaimed some of his faculties. 

Derek chuckled, carefully slipped his length out from between Stiles' cheeks. He was still painfully hard, hadn't gotten off when Stiles had, but he could wait. “Come on, let's get you cleaned up.”

Getting Stiles into the shower was easy once Derek gave up trying to let him manage on his own; just lifted Stiles and carried him inside. 

“I feel like I should object on the grounds that I am a man, damn it, and I don't need to be carried like a swooning princess.” Stiles grumbled while Derek manhandled him under the shower's spray. He shivered when the hot water sluiced over his flushed skin, feeling cooler than all the steam suggested it should.

Derek held Stiles to his chest with arms around his waist, his palms spread wide and warm in the dip of his spine. “Swoon and be carried, it's the way these things work. I don't make the rules, Stiles.”

“Again with the jokes.” Stiles chuckled lazily, content to simply lean into Derek and let the water wash over him. No actual cleansing had to happen, not as far as he was concerned. “I didn't swoon.” he added as an afterthought. 

Derek snorted, earning himself a pinch of the ribs that only served to make him smile wider. 

“I didn't!” Stiles protested, shoving himself away from Derek's chest, only to be caught under the elbow when he slipped and almost landed on his ass. He narrowed his eyes at a grinning Derek, feeling contrary for the sake of it. “Keep it up, fucker.”

“I don't really see that being a problem.” Derek mused, eyebrows going up as he looked pointedly down.

Stiles followed his gaze, mouth going dry and then watering excessively at the sight of Derek's cock, still hard and bobbing up between his thighs. “Not what I meant, but I can work with that.” he muttered, tilting his head to watch as a drop of pre-come rolled down Derek's length.

“Shower first, before we run out of hot water.” Derek forced himself to say, fighting to unclench his jaw as he watched Stiles' eyes darken and his tongue dart out along his bottom lip, like he wanted to taste.

It took all the willpower Derek possessed to not just pin Stiles to the shower wall and sink into him. With every brush of soapy hands over his skin, every skim of slippery fingers over corded muscle, Derek fought to keep his own touches perfunctory and mission oriented. If the occasional slip-up happened, like his fingers dipping in to glide over Stiles' puckered hole, or his hand lingering a little longer than necessary behind Stiles' balls when he was meant to be washing them, Derek was willing to chalk it up to how utterly delectable Stiles looked in his shower. 

With his hair drenched and laying flat, fat droplets of water running down his body in paths Derek's tongue ached to follow, and his cock slowly filling in its nest of dark curls, Stiles was devastating.

“I think we're clean enough, Der.” Stiles eventually declared, pulling Derek under the spray and watching while suds ran down his abs, between his legs and onto the shower floor. “Can I suck your cock now, or do you have a few errands you'd like to run, first?” he questioned, eyes wide with feigned innocence, fingers wrapping dexterously around the appendage in question.

Derek hissed when Stiles twisted his wrist, gave a knee-weakening jerk of his heavy cock that had Derek's head swimming. “Stiles.” he breathed, having to steady himself with a palm flat against the shower tiles.

Stiles smirked, all sharp-edged and knowing. He lowered himself carefully, mindful of his newly healed skin and lack of supernatural grace. Derek watched him with hooded eyes, bottom lip caught between his teeth, chest heaving and glittering with beads of water clinging to the dark smattering of hair.

“Do you know how long I've wanted to do this?” Stiles queried from his position, on his knees between Derek's spread legs, one hand braced on Derek's muscled thigh while the other drifted slowly up toward his groin. “For years, Derek. I can't even remember the first time I imagined it, it's happened so many times since.” His hand curled firmly around Derek's cock, hard and hot in his palm. Stiles gave a few leisurely tugs, satisfaction blossoming in his chest when Derek's breath stuttered. “Even sound asleep, I'd dream of what it would feel like, what your cock would taste like; how it would feel on my tongue, in my throat. I'd wake up to sticky sheets and red cheeks, because I knew I'd never get to find out.”

Derek's claws threatened to unsheathe, his body vibrating with the strength exuded to hold back even a partial shift. “Thought.” he corrected with a groan, looking down into liquid gold eyes. “You _thought_ you'd never get to find out.”

A wicked gleam lighting his eyes, Stiles hummed his agreement, attention falling to the rigid flesh weighing heavily in his hand. Derek expected more words, more of Stiles telling him each and every detail of his fantasized encounters with Derek's cock. Instead, what he got was Stiles' tongue flicking out to lap at his sticky head, startling a rumbling moan from somewhere so deep inside Derek, he felt it in his toes. 

Stiles didn't waste much time teasing, too eager to discover how close to his imagination the real thing came. He used his fist to pull back Derek's foreskin, licking at each newly exposed stretch of skin with an eagerness that had Derek whining deep in his chest. 

Stiles gave head like he did everything else; Brimming with enthusiasm and overflowing determination. He pulled Derek into his throat and swallowed around him, not even batting an eye when he choked and had to readjust. Tongue working down Derek's length like it had only one goal in mind, Stiles slurped and sucked, his eyes flicking up once in a while to read the helpless pleasure written all over Derek's slack features. 

“God, Stiles.” Derek panted, abs quivering with the orgasm rapidly building up and being wrenched out of him. “That mouth. Always loved your mouth.” he murmured, hand sliding into Stiles' hair, molding to the curve of his skull as he rolled his hips and Stiles opened his jaw wider.

It was sinful, how good Stiles' lips felt around his cock, how perfect it felt to fuck gently into that delicious heat and have Stiles swallow around him as though he'd been doing it for ages. Derek's brain was halfway to mush, his body sparking and lighting up like a live wire with every sweet slide of Stiles' fist on him, every tantalizing glide of his lips around him.

Stile dropped one hand to his own cock, jutting up eagerly between his thighs, and began jerking himself off with quick strokes, meant to get him off as quickly as possible. Derek was right there with him, could feel his release curling up his spine like vines, twining and pulling until he was wound so tight he was sure he couldn't stop himself from simply exploding.

“Stiles-” he tried to warn, fingers twisting in silken strands to drag Stiles off.

Stiles let himself be dragged, looked up at Derek with wide, watery eyes and a puffy mouth, licking his lips like he couldn't bare to miss the taste of Derek on his tongue. His eyes were sincere and pleading when he spoke, throat roughing up the words as they spilled out. “Mark me, Derek, please.” he begged, throwing his head back and exposing the long column of his throat.

The moan Derek let out at that would have been embarrassing if he could've brought himself to care. But, his eyes were flashing Blue and a snarl was twisting its way out of his throat as he stripped his cock, eyes drinking in the expanse of pale flesh just waiting for his brand. His orgasm tore through him like a freight train, loud and fast. Shoulders hunching forward, Derek shot off over Stiles' throat, coating that bobbing Adam's apple, growling his pleasure at the way his come painted messy lines that would carry his scent for hours, even when they'd been washed away.

Stiles came a moment later, Derek's come still searing his skin, branding him as taken for all the wolves to see, to smell. He let his body slump forward, catching himself on Derek's leg, head resting against his thigh while fingers pushed lovingly through his wet hair. 

“See?” Stiles said, between shuddering, gasping breaths, “Ruined. For life.”

 

*

 

Erica and Boyd sat snuggled together in one of the over-sized chairs surrounding Derek's coffee table, only looking up briefly to acknowledge them when Stiles and Derek made their way down into the living room half an hour later.

“Allison and Isaac are on their way.” Boyd said, his eyes already back on Erica's phone, where she was holding it out for him to see. 

“Danny, too.” Erica added absently, pointing to something on the phone's screen.

Derek grunted his acknowledgment as he crossed the living room, headed for the kitchen. Meanwhile, Stiles was already perusing the bookshelf along the loft's wall, under the stairs. Derek put it in at Stiles' insistence, since most pack meetings took place at the loft anyway. It made more sense for the books to be there, organized and easily located, rather than having to trek all the way to either Deaton's clinic or Stiles' house to find whatever book they needed at any given time. 

“Did they find something?” Stiles asked over his shoulder, fingertips trailing over the cracked spine of an ancient bestiary that once belonged to Derek's grandmother.

Erica huffed an annoyed breath, but Stiles knew it was at the situation and not at him. “No, not according to Isaac. I think they just want to check in.”

Stiles nodded, already having resigned himself to the pack not being able to find an answer. Derek told him he was being pessimistic, but Stiles preferred to think of it as realism. Short of a miracle, he was doubtful that any of them would be able to find a cure before Carrick made a move. 

Pulling down a book from the top shelf, an encyclopedia of healing magic, Stiles carried the heavy tome over to the couch and settled into its cushions, his legs folded up under him and the book spread open in his lap. It was easy to slip into the familiar routine of research, now that he was clear headed and the buzz of energy he had few ways of actually expelling had receded.

He felt better after his shower with Derek, like he was more settled, more at home in his skin. He couldn't be sure if it was the moon's influence or the effects of the metal in his blood, but he'd woken up feeling more restless and fractured than he had the day before, his brain muddled and foggy. Being near Derek helped a little, but Stiles was willing to admit, to himself at least, that Derek taking charge of him was mostly the reason he felt better.

It eased something inside, giving himself over to Derek like that. Allowing the man he loved, trusted beyond the borders of pack and loyalty, to wield power over him... It calmed him, centered him in a way he didn't want to scrutinize too closely, but was thankful for all the same.

The sounds of Derek banging around in the kitchen served to soothe Stiles further, lulling him into clear focus while he flipped through the book's pages, reading each entry at a glacial pace so as not to miss anything. He was three pages in when Derek sat down beside him, a wall of warmth at his side. It wasn't until then he realized how chilled he actually was. His blood was running a few degrees higher than normal, but his core temperature was still lower than what it should be, leaving him feeling cold when everyone else seemed to be comfortable. He leaned toward Derek reflexively, seeking out his wolfish body heat.

“Here.” 

Stiles looked up to see the proffered coffee cup, the orange one with the chipped rim that he'd laid claim to forever ago, held out to him by Derek. 

“You're shivering.” Derek noted, changing course halfway and setting their mugs down on the coffee table. He leaned over to drag his jacket off the back of the couch, draping it over Stiles' shoulders before handing him his coffee. “Drink, it'll warm you up.”

“Yes, sir.” Stiles said cheekily, grinning into his mug when Derek's eyes snapped to his, a slow, surprised smile curving his mouth.

Stiles went back to his reading while he sipped at his coffee, barely looking up when the others arrived. He was so immersed in an entry about a cleansing ritual that he didn't notice when Allison sat beside him, tucking her knees into his side and laying her head on his shoulder.

“We'll find something.” she whispered, slipping her fingers into his hand and squeezing. “We've got a great track record of figuring this stuff out at the last possible second.”

Stiles chuckled lowly, leaning forward to set down his mug. “Yeah, I guess we do.” he agreed, smiling softly when Allison rested her head back on his shoulder the second he settled back into the couch. “I just... I hate this, you know? Not being able to feel such a huge part of myself.”

Erica snickered, a lecherous grin tugging at her lips. 

“Pervert.” Stiles chided fondly, unable to wipe away his own smile. 

“You know it, baby.” Erica shrugged, kicking her heels up onto the table, having sunk into the space created when Boyd got up to join Isaac and Danny in the kitchen.

“Allison's right,” Derek tossed in, elbowing Stiles lightly in the side, “we're going to figure all of this out. We'll find a way to reconnect you and Isaac with your wolves.”

“What about Carrick? What are we-” Stiles started, only to cut himself off with a confused noise when he shoved his hand into the pocket of Derek's jacket and felt something inside. “What's this?” he asked, pulling out the velvety bundle.

“Oh,” Derek's brow furrowed, looking at the bag. “Remember that Faerie we talked to, the night that Scott called us out to Winslow Lake?”

Stiles nodded. “I don't think encounters with Faerie princes are something you really forget. Especially when said prince is six inches tall and completely naked.” 

A few titters of laughter filled the room at that, mostly from Erica, though Stiles could feel Allison's giggles against his side.

“Yeah, well, Boyd and I ran into him the day you were shot.” Derek told him, jaw going tight with the memory. Stiles wrapped his free hand around Derek's forearm in silent reassurance. “He said to give that to you, that you'd know what it was for. But, by the time we got to you...”

“I was already hit.” Stiles filled in, hating the pain that bled into Derek's voice.

“Boyd had it, and I forgot about it until last night, but you were asleep when I got home.” Derek explained, scrubbing a hand across the sharp edge of his stubbled jaw. “Do you know what it is?”

Stiles shook his head as he eyed the bag speculatively, weighing it in his hand and letting the hum of magic in its fibers crawl across his skin. “Did you open it?” he asked, squinting to read the golden markings embossed in its green velvet fabric.

“Hell no.” Boyd shouted back, raising his voice so Stiles and Allison could hear. “I leave any and all magic related shit to you and Lydia.”

“Good call.” Stiles called back, nodding absently.

“What do you think it is?” Allison asked, bending forward to get a better look. 

“I'm not sure.” Stiles frowned, tracing a line of stitching. “But, I'm pretty sure these markings are written in Fae.”

“They have their own language?” Isaac asked as he entered the room, perching on the arm of the couch beside Allison, a cup of coffee in one hand and a couple of toaster waffles in the other. Danny was right behind him, coffee in hand as he lowered himself into an empty chair beside Erica.

“Sort of?” Stiles replied distractedly, busy trying to decipher the markings. “It's mostly made up of word fragments and something like hieroglyphs. At least, their written language is. Spoken language is a whole other situation.”

“Can you read it?” Danny questioned, watching as Stiles concentrated on the bag.

“Maybe.” Stiles hummed, putting aside the book in his lap and pushing himself up to cross the room. He ran his finger along the edge of the bookshelf, searching for a book he and Lydia had compiled, a collection of rare languages they'd written mostly for fun during the sporadic lulls in supernatural activity. 

Setting down the book on the coffee table, Stiles flipped it open and began leafing through its pages.

“Just open it.” Erica suggested, clearly impatient to find out its contents.

Stiles and Derek both let out snorts that told her exactly how awful an idea that was. “How about no?” Stiles offered snarkily. “We don't know what's in here. It could be poisonous to werewolves, or even humans. Hell, it could pull an Indiana Jones and melt all of our faces off.”

“You watch too much TV.” Boyd told him, coming in and sitting on the floor by Erica's feet, offering up a cup of coffee to her while he sipped from his own. 

“Prince said it was supposed to help, I think.” Derek muttered, trying to remember exactly what the faerie had said. “Something about needing whatever is in there for the pack to survive the month.”

“Did he say anything else?” Stiles asked, searching around the room for a pen and paper, grinning his thanks when Derek handed it to him from the drawer in the end stand on his side of the couch.

“Just that he was paying back a debt to Scott, and that you and I make a curious pair.”

“Isn't that the truth.” Isaac mumbled under his breath, smiling blindingly when Derek and Stiles both fixed him with bored glares. 

“I'm pretty sure he likes us.” Stiles mumbled, mind racing off in a thousand different directions. “That first night, out by the lake, he asked if you were mine. He seemed fascinated by the idea, like it pleased him.”

“Yeah, I got that, too.” Derek agreed. 

“Because that's not creepy at all.” Allison scoffed, frowning at the bag.

“He did say that he would be 'displeased by your loss'.” Boyd added, earning a nod of thanks from Derek for reminding him.

Stiles paused in his hurried translating, dropping his pen to focus his attention back on the bag. “So, whatever is in here is meant to help us, but we don't know how. The Fae are tricksters by nature. Their idea of helping isn't always going to jive with ours.”

“Did you get anything from the markings?” Derek asked, leaning forward to get a look at the notebook when Stiles had been silent for a few long minutes. 

“There are the things you'd expect, like healing and purification.” Stiles sighed, rubbing at his eyes. “I'm almost positive there's something about a phoenix, though, which probably doesn't bode well for Parrish. But, what really worries me is the bit about a blood sacrifice. It's not specific, from what I can tell, but it's there. This symbol references smelting, which is not a term I want used in reference to me in any scenario. I mean, would I be the metal or the ore in that situation? Because, either way sounds disturbingly painful.” Stiles shook his head, reordering his thoughts and putting himself back on track. “I'm not confident in any of this, though, honestly. I could be reading the ingredients for laundry detergent, for all I know.” Stiles' mouth turned down sharply at the corners.

“I didn't understand half of what you just said.” Isaac admitted, looking at Stiles for an explanation.

“Allison makes her own silver arrowheads, Isaac. You have to at least know what smelting is.” Derek pointed out, before giving his attention back to Stiles. “So, this might be a cure?”

“It could be.” Stiles allowed, grimacing. “Or, maybe it will kill all of us the moment I open it. I know we're fond of the blind leap around here, but I'd really rather not be responsible for anyone else getting hurt. Somehow, the term 'blood sacrifice' just doesn't conjure images of sunshine and rainbows, you know?”

“Okay.” Derek conceded, taking a deep breath before forcing it out between clenched teeth. “So, we call Lydia. Between the two of you, you should be able to translate enough to figure out what we're dealing with. No one does anything until we know for sure, one way or the other?”

Stiles hesitated, chewing his lips while he turned the bag over in his hands. “Okay.” he eventually agreed, albeit grudgingly. If he was holding the cure in his palms, if the little green bag in his clutches was the thing that would get him his wolf and his Mate bond back, he didn't want to wait or play it safe. He knew better, though, had learned from rash decisions and gut reactions. With a sigh and one last, longing look at the bag, Stiles nodded. “Let's call Lydia.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re: The Dom/sub elements- Stiles is feeling overwhelmed and has an abundance of energy he doesn't know what to do with. He's struggling with his current situation, and giving over his power to Derek is a way for him to deal. Derek takes on a slightly Dominating role, taking physical control of Stiles and verbalizing what would probably be widely considered as orders or commands. 
> 
> Basically, all the power in this situation belongs to Derek, but Stiles is an eager participant.


	18. Diffuse Or Detonate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've given up apologizing for cliff-hangers.
> 
> That being said, I love you guys and sincerely hope none of you wish death upon me for this one.

“Derek?” 

Sighing his frustration, Derek pulled his eyes away from the outline of Stiles and Lydia, silhouetted in the loft's window. They hadn't left the table for nearly three hours, heads bowed together in quiet conversation as they bickered over translations. Derek didn't listen in, mostly because he couldn't bring himself to. He was too afraid of what he might hear, that maybe this was just another dead end and not the cure they were searching for.

Turning his head toward the sound of his name, Derek found Scott lingering in the doorway, hands in his pockets and an awkward air about him. Scott toed at the concrete under their feet, jaw working determinedly, like he was chewing on his words, grinding them to dust between his teeth.

“Don't hurt yourself, Scott.” Derek rolled his eyes, though even to his own ears, his voice sounded affectionate. 

“Screw you, man.” Scott chuffed a laugh, a crooked smile quirking his lips as the tension leaked out of his shoulders. “Like you're any better at this.”

Derek arched a brow, crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the wall of the balcony. “Better at what, exactly?” he questioned, mostly just to watch Scott squirm. “Lurking in dark corners, or admitting when I'm an asshole?”

“Nah, dude, it's still daylight. Besides, you've definitely got me beat on the lurking.” Scott snorted, crossing the balcony to lean beside Derek. “No one does creeper like Derek Hale does creeper.”

Derek shrugged, having no real argument against that. 

“I was, though.” Scott said, squinting off into the distance. “An asshole. I shouldn't have said what I did. I know that what happened with Stiles, it wasn't your fault. I'm sorry.”

Staring hard down at his feet, Derek clenched his teeth. He didn't think Scott owed him an apology, not when they both understood why he reacted the way he had. Even after Stiles absolved Derek of his guilt, it lingered. Besides, Scott's anger was understandable. It didn't feel right to accept an apology for something he wasn't sure needed to be apologized for.

Scott hesitated, eyeballing Derek from the corner of his eye. Blowing out a breath, he scratched at the lopsided edge of his jaw. “When Isaac got hit, I... I kind of lost it.” he admitted haltingly. “I wasn't there, you know? I couldn't stop it from happening, couldn't keep him safe. Seeing him like that, it reminded me that, even though he's a wolf, I can still lose him. Hell, I could lose both of them. All it would take is a well-aimed bullet, or one misstep during a fight, and-” 

Scott's scent spiked with pain and sour fear, and Derek shifted closer. He let his instincts guide him and pressed his shoulder into Scott's, all too familiar with the thoughts choking him. Scott leaned into the touch, took a steadying breath.

“My point is, I know how you felt, not being able to stop what happened.” Scott told him, scraping his teeth over his bottom lip. “Not just because I almost lost Isaac, but because of what happened while you were gone. I just- I saw you carrying Stiles and all the fear came rushing back. All I could think about was seeing him that day, bleeding out in the middle of that field. I was right there and I still couldn't do anything to protect him. I don't know if you guys have ever talked about it or whatever, but watching him all but die? It seriously screwed with my head.”

“He's alive, Scott.” Derek reminded him. “They both are. Stiles and Isaac, they're too stubborn to go out that easily.”

“I know that.” Scott sighed. “At least, part of me does. The other part of me just kind of stands there and snarls threateningly at everything.”

Derek gave a hoarse laugh at that, knowing from experience that Scott was speaking literally. His own wolf had been known to snap and snarl with even the slightest perceived threat to Stiles' safety.

“It's worse, in a way, with Stiles.” Scott continued, clearing his throat and looking away again. “I know it's not fair, but I still feel like I need to protect him. Stiles and I have been attached at the hip since the day we met, Derek. I look at him and I see the clumsy, breakable kid I grew up with. When he's hurt or in pain, I don't see the wolf, I see the devastated little boy with tears pouring down his face at his mother's funeral. That image... It's burned into my brain. I don't care what he is; human, werewolf, abominable snowman... He's always going to be Stiles to me, and my first instinct will always be to make sure that I never see that look on his face, ever again.”

“Believe me when I tell you, I understand.” Derek held up a hand to stop Scott's interrupting. “I may not have been a part of his life when Claudia died, Scott, and I may not have been here when everything went down with the Catoblepas, but I am here _now_. I've lost people, too. I know how much it hurts, how it breaks you apart and scatters the pieces. Stiles is... He's stronger than any of us, always has been. Even when he was human, he was so much stronger. You think he's fragile, but Stiles is made of solid fucking steel, Scott.”

“I don't think he's fragile.” Scott argued, keeping his voice low. “I know how tough he is. But, you cannot stand there and tell me that you can look at him and not see his face after Gerard beat the hell out of him, or remember the way he looked after the nogitsune, how broken and fragmented he was. You can't lie to me and say it doesn't scare the shit out of you.”

“Of course it does!” Derek bit out on a harsh whisper. “I'm in love with him, Scott, I'm fucking terrified! But, we both need accept the fact that he's a wolf now. He's not nearly as breakable as he used to be, and it's not fair for us to treat him like he is.”

Scott blinked at Derek, mouth slack, brain whirring behind his eyes like it was struggling to process that information. 

“You... You're in love with him?” It came out almost silently, as though Scott were afraid that if he raised his voice above a whisper he'd scare it away. 

Derek shoved away from the wall, thrust his hands through his hair and laughed a little hysterically. “How is that even a question anymore, Scott?” he demanded, incredulous. “Since the minute I got back, I've spent every second of every day just trying to fix things between us. Hell, he's three-quarters of the reason I even came back at all!”

“I didn't know you-” Scott shook his head, somehow completely blindsided. “I mean, obviously I knew you guys were together, you know? And, you're his anchor and everything, but... I don't know. I guess hearing it put like that... I just wasn't expecting it.”

“Yeah, well, I didn't expect to say it, so I guess we're even.” Derek snorted, suddenly feeling overexposed under Scott's attention.

“Does he know?” Scott asked, brows drawn together. 

Derek's head dropped back, eyes toward the sky as he remembered the scent of panic clouding around Stiles when Derek hinted at wanting to know how he felt about him. He recalled the tightness in Stiles' shoulders when he climbed over Derek to get out of bed, saying only that he didn't want to talk about it right then.

“I don't- I thought it was better to wait.”

“For what?!” Scott balked, taking a step closer.

Derek rolled his eyes, but Scott could see the confusion in his face, could smell the snarl of emotions coming off of him. They were all muddled together, such a jumbled mess that Scott couldn't even pick out one from the others.

“It's only been a few days, Scott.” Derek grumbled, dragging a hand over his face. “The Bond is enough, for now. With everything else going on-”

“Wait, what?” Scott guffawed, jaw dropped wide open. “You're bonded? I'm gonna kill him!”

Derek couldn't help the offended expression that twisted his features.

“Oh! No, dude, not what I meant.” Scott said quickly. “It's... He didn't tell me, is all. Which, I know, things have been a little crazy, so I can't really hold it against him.”

“Well, seeing as how he almost died.” Derek snapped.

Scott didn't take it personally. He knew Derek tended to get surly when he had to talk about emotions and _feelings_ for too long. 

Derek headed for the door back into the loft, clearly having reached his limit. Scott called out to stop him, figuring that this would probably be his only chance to put in his own two cents. When Derek turned around, a deep scowl carved into his face, Scott had to bite back a laugh. 

Leave it to Derek to look pissed off about being in love.

“Look, I know you didn't ask for it, but I'm going to give you a little bit of advice.” Derek's glare intensified, but Scott just rolled his eyes and continued, “Stiles doesn't do anything half-assed. Seriously, he pours everything he's got into everything he does. Sometimes, he gives more than he should to the wrong people and he ends up hurt. You are not the wrong people, Derek.”

Derek looked away, fighting to stop the color crawling up the back of his neck.

“If you're waiting to tell him because you're afraid-” 

Scott ignored Derek's warning growl, smiling wider. He was probably enjoying this more than he should, but Derek was fucking adorable, trying to act like the big bad wolf when he had hearts in his eyes. 

“ _If you're afraid_ , don't be.” Scott said seriously, trying to convey his sincerity. Derek eyed him warily, but he was still listening. “Trust me, Derek. If Stiles didn't care about you, he wouldn't have been so angry with you for leaving. He would have brushed it off and welcomed you back without a word. And, there is no way in hell he would have accepted a Bond.” 

Uncertainty clouded Derek's eyes, but Scott smiled reassuringly. 

“Tell him you're in love with him. I can't guarantee he'll say it back, because the two of you truly are the most emotionally inept people I have ever met, but I can promise you one thing; I have seen Stiles love, and I have seen him truly be _in_ love. You are the only person I have ever seen on the receiving end of both.”

Eyes skirting back to the window, Derek watched Stiles lean over Lydia's shoulder to read whatever it was she was writing. Scott followed his gaze, giving a tiny huff of what Derek thought was supposed to be something like annoyed understanding. 

“You know that's not a thing anymore, right?” Scott queried, making it sound as though Derek were being deliberately dense. “Hasn't been for a long time, now. Stiles loves Lydia, but he was only ever in love with who he thought she was. She's one of his best friends, and he'll always worship the ground she walks on, but that's not something you need to worry about.”

“I know that.” Derek agreed, surprised to find he actually believed it. “Have to admit, though, it helps to hear it from you.” he added after a moment.

“Why, because I'm their Alpha?” 

Derek caught a shadow move beyond the window, recognized it and made to open the door, only stopping to turn back to Scott and say with a smile, “No, because you're his brother.”

Scott's smile would have been blinding had they been standing in the dark. As it were, Derek could only shake his head fondly and pull the door open, revealing a stone-faced Chris Argent on the other side.

Derek thought he should have figured the quiet couldn't last long, was resigned to it when Chris opened his mouth and the first words out of it were, “You guys can smell C-4, right?”

 

*

 

“This isn't fair, Scott!” Stiles fumed, eyes burning Gold as he glared hard at his Alpha and paced the length of Chris Argent's living room.

His Alpha; not his best friend, not his brother. Standing there, rigid and unmoved, Scott was every bit the one in control, the one giving orders. Even Derek and Parrish didn't try to intervene when Stiles sent them pleading looks. 

Arms crossed over his chest and eyes flashing Red, Scott repeated the command, careful to keep his tone firm, “You need to stay here. This isn't negotiable, Stiles. If Carrick or his people find you-”

“It's the full moon, though!” Stiles argued, voice raised and shaking with anger. “I don't care that I can't shift, I still need to be outside. You cannot seriously expect me to hide out here while the pack goes out!”

“You make it sound like we're going for a run, Stiles.” Scott snapped, gesturing widely. “We're searching for a _bomb_ , for Christ's sake! You and Isaac are both sitting this one out, so quit bitching and Stay. Here.”

Stiles' growl would have probably been more intimidating had it belonged to his wolf. Instead, it was weak and human, and Scott winced at the sound of it.

“I know how much you hate this.” he sighed, reaching out to cup a hand around Stiles' nape. “And, I know you want to help, but you have to trust me. We can't let innocent people get hurt because of us, Stiles. Just... Stay here, please? Finish the translation and let us handle this.”

“I swear to God, if you idiots get yourselves killed-” 

Derek was the one to cut Stiles off, speaking up from behind him. “No one is getting killed, Stiles. Parrish is an expert when it comes to diffusing bombs, remember? All the rest of us are doing is finding it.”

“What if it's a trap?” Stiles questioned, anger giving way to worry, to fear for his pack. “Argent got the info from Lochlann, right? Maybe he heard about Sean and this is him trying to-”

“Maybe it is a trap.” Scott agreed, giving Stiles' neck squeeze before releasing him. “But, we're prepared for that, too. Don't worry about us, dude. Just figure out how to counteract those bullets so that you and Isaac can get your wolves back.”

Stiles glanced across the room, eyeballing Isaac where he sat on Chris' sofa, looking resigned to staying out of everything but not at all pleased about it. 

“Okay, fine.” Stiles bit out, scowling at Scott, Derek, and Parrish. “But, you guys owe me so hard. I'm not even kidding. And, next full moon, I'm not even looking at pants for three whole days.”

“That should go over well.” Parrish chuckled, while Derek smiled fondly and Scott looked relieved.

“Fine with me.” Derek said, moving forward to catch Stiles' lips in a kiss before he could start ranting again. “We'll be back before you know it.” he promised, voice low so it stayed between them. “I'll call you as soon as we find it.”

“My dad-”

“Will be with me and Parrish.” Derek quickly assured. “I'll keep him safe, I promise.”

Stiles nodded, fingers twisting in the hem of Derek's jacket before he could pull away. “Okay. I trust you.”

One side of Derek's mouth quirked up. “I sure as hell hope so.”

“Alright, go.” Stiles huffed, fighting to release Derek as he said the words. “Before I change my mind.”

“Don't worry, Stiles.” Scott called across the room, pulling away from Isaac, whose face was creased with a frown. “Everything is going to be fine.”

“Right.” Stiles griped, watching the three of them shuffle toward the door, Derek casting looks over his shoulder as they went. “Because, that has ever been true.”

 

*

 

Finding the bomb turned out to be the easy part, oddly enough. Derek was with Parrish and the Sheriff, searching downtown for any trace of explosives floating on the air, when the call came in.

It only took about ten minutes for them to get to the other side of town, mostly thanks to John flipping on the lights and siren before he peeled off into the night with Derek in the passenger seat and Parrish behind them in his department SUV. Derek debated whether or not to call Stiles on the way, but figured it would be better to wait until they'd disarmed the bomb and everyone was safe. At least then he could save Stiles the unnecessary worry and anxiety of actively having to wait for the threat to be neutralized.

“What have we got?” Parrish called as he climbed out of his vehicle and headed for the back hatch.

They were in the Town Square, the area cordoned off by two fire trucks, a pair of emergency response vehicles, and a handful of police cruisers. The fountain in the Square's center was illuminated by a few floodlights aimed right at it, casting it in artificial brightness and sharp relief. The fountain was pretty simply designed, from what Derek remembered of it from throwing coins into in as a child. It had four tiers, tapering up toward the top where the water fanned out and cascaded down to collect in the stone pool at its base. 

Derek looked around warily, uncomfortable with the amount of civilians pressing in along the barriers the Sheriff's department set up, apparently undeterred by the fact that there was a potentially fatal situation unfolding before their eyes.

It was Chris who responded, face pale and drawn in the shadowed darkness. “The device is under the fountain.” he explained while Parrish donned his protective armor. 

Not that the blast would actually kill him should it go off before he got a chance to disarm the bomb, but it'd definitely hurt like hell. Plus, with the crowd gathered around it would look beyond suspicious if their bomb-tech approached the blast zone without protective gear.

“From what I could see without actually touching anything, looks like it's on a timer. There's enough c-4 rigged to that thing to wipe out about two blocks in all directions.” Argent said gravely, eyes meeting the Sheriff's gaze with hard edges.

“We've got to get these people back.” John spoke into his radio, commanding his men. “I want a six block perimeter in the next five minutes. Commercial or residential, evacuate every building inside the blast zone. Now!”

The scene lurched into barely controlled chaos at the Sheriff's orders, and Derek watched while the onlookers were herded away. He caught sight of Scott arguing with Allison on the opposite end of the square and had to smile. Even without allowing himself to listen in, he knew that Scott was trying to get Allison to leave the scene and she was having none of it. 

“There's more.” Chris warned, catching Parrish by the elbow before he could slip on his helmet and head toward the fountain. “I am by no means an expert in whatever the Kearney's have done with those bullets. However, I am an expert hunter who specialized in werewolves for most of my life. Which is how I know that that fountain is full of wolfsbane, and its tiers are brimming with metal.”

“Iron?” Derek questioned, brows furrowed as he eyed the fountain.

“Silver, too, I'd wager.” Argent nodded, mouth a hard line. “Carrick is going for maximum damage. Human, werewolf; it doesn't matter at this point.”

“Well, then I'd better get to work.” Parrish determinedly dipped his chin, sliding his helmet over his head. 

“Jesus.” John sighed gruffly, scrubbing a hand across his mouth as they hung back and watched Parrish approach the fountain. “Maybe you all should clear out, too.”

Derek lifted heavy brows at him. John snorted a little bitterly, like he'd known exactly what response he was courting with that suggestion.

“My son will never forgive me if I let you get hurt on my watch.” John sighed, leaning heavily back against the side of Parrish's truck. 

Derek turned his attention away from where Allison and Scott were heading their way, apparently having reached an understanding if the pout Scott was wearing said anything. The rest of the pack was trailing behind them. They all gave the fountain a wide berth, skirting along the edges of the barrier as they crossed the Square.

Giving his full attention to the Sheriff, Derek shrugged. “He's already threatened to hand me my ass if you get so much as a paper-”

Derek felt it a second before it happened. There was a shift in the atmosphere that had his hair standing on end as it rolled over him, and he stiffened. The ground rumbled under his feet and Derek had just enough time to throw himself bodily over Stiles' father before everything went bright and the world erupted in noise.


	19. Shock Wave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, my lovelies! I hope you all had a wonderful holiday and are enjoying the New Year :D
> 
> Enjoy your update!

Throwing down the thick, leather-bound book he'd been using for translating Prince's gift, Stiles winced when the loud thwack made Isaac startle, his shoulders going tight where he leaned over the table, doodling absently on a scrap of paper. 

“Sorry.” Stiles sighed tiredly, dropping his face into his hands, the heels of his palms fitting into the sockets of his eyes. He rubbed his eyes hard, not stopping until he had a veritable disco of lights behind his lids. “How are you two so calm right now?” he asked, pulling his hands away from his face and blinking rapidly to clear his vision. 

Isaac snorted, a rather undignified sound that made Lydia roll her eyes. “We're not calm.” She gave a small sigh of her own, leaning back in her chair. “We're just better at containing our nerves than you are.”

Isaac nodded his agreement. “We're worried too, Stiles.” he said, frowning down at the notebook page he'd littered with random sketches. 

“I know.” Stiles rolled his shoulders, trying to ease some of the tightness in them. “Ugh, I know. I just have this feeling, you know? Like, this pit in my stomach that keeps growing and growing the longer we don't hear from them.”

“It's only been an hour or so.” Lydia pointed out, tapping her phone's screen. “I'm sure we'll hear something as soon as there's something to hear. Read me what you've got.” she demanded, pointing to the notebook Stiles had laying open on the table by his elbow, the page filled with his haphazard scrawl. 

He knew she was just trying to distract him, to make him refocus on the task at hand, but he did as she told him without putting up a fight. 

“Far as I can tell,” he chewed his bottom lip, squinting down at his translation, “Parrish's blood is supposed to act like some kind of ignition agent to whatever's in the bag.”

“Like a spark?” Isaac asked, standing to walk around the table so he could read over Stiles' shoulder.

Stiles nodded. “Yeah, basically.” he agreed. “There are a ton of other steps before the phoenix thing, though. I wasn't entirely wrong before, when I said it was a list of ingredients; it just isn't for laundry detergent.”

“What is it then?” 

“It's an elixir.” Lydia said, dipping her chin in approval of Stiles' translation. “Meant to inoculate supernatural beings from the effects of an entire spectrum of substances, up to and including the particular blend in the Kearney's bullets.”

Isaac's face looked like it was fighting between looking hopeful and not wanting to believe what he was hearing for fear of having misunderstood. “So, you're saying...”

“It's a cure.” Stiles grinned through his exhaustion, ignoring the lingering pain pressing jaggedly beneath his skin. “Or, more accurately, it's a cure for someone who has already been exposed. It's more like a vaccine, though, for everyone else.”

“Okay, so what else do we need-”

Lydia made a sound - a soft almost-whine that sounded uncomfortably close to the sound a wounded animal would make - pulling Stiles and Isaac's eyes to her. 

“What?” Stiles asked, brows drawing down in concern. “Lydia, what is it? What's wrong?”

Lips pressed so tightly together they were going bloodless white around the edges, Lydia shook her head defiantly, almost desperately. It took a moment for Stiles to understand, to figure out what was putting that haunted, hunted look in Lydia's saucer-wide eyes. It was too late by then, Lydia unable to hold back the scream pent up in her throat. She couldn't stop it anymore, couldn't keep it in.

Lydia opened her mouth and a soul-rending, goosebump-inducing scream poured out. Stiles and Isaac both shrank away from the shrillness of her scream, pressing their hands over their ears in a useless attempt to muffle it. 

As soon as the scream petered out, leaving Lydia looking pallid and stricken, Stiles reached across the table, taking her hand in his.

“Where?” he questioned, knowing his eyes had to be wild, panicked. “Where are they? Is it- Do you know who?”

Lydia was already shaking her head, lips clamped back together like she was trying to take back the scream she'd already put voice to. 

“Come on, Lyds, help me out here.” Stiles begged, unable to shake the wave of cold that had washed over him.

“I don't know.” she whispered shakily, apologetic for something Stiles knew would never, _could_ never be her fault. “I'm sorry, I don't-”

The rest of Lydia's words were eaten up by the roar of a distant explosion. The sound was thunderous, loud enough to make the ground tremble, the blast's shock wave chasing close on its heels. The boom reverberated through Stiles' chest, a jolting bolt of rampaging energy that he felt down to his bones. The house around them shook with the force of it, a few photos in the entryway crashing to the floor as windows rattled in their panes. 

Stiles, Lydia, and Isaac stared at one another in fixed horror as a deafening silence crushed in around them, making their ears ring. It took a few excruciating seconds for sound to bleed back in, the first thing to pierce the soundless fog a chorus of car alarms blaring from outside. 

“No.” Stiles gasped, heart racing in his chest and still humming with the force of the blast.

He was already on his feet, knees wobbling beneath him in his rush to stand. Lydia hurried around the table, quickly reached out to steady him, catching him up under the armpit. Stiles slung his arm around her shoulder, pulling her into his side. He didn't miss the sheen of tears glistening in her eyes, nor the low, pitiful whimper of sound vibrating in Isaac's throat behind them.

“Call Scott.” Stiles ordered, whipping his head around to meet Isaac's wide-eyed stare. “On the way.” he added, already trying to drag Lydia toward the door.

“Wait!” Lydia planted her feet, making Stiles swing around. “Maybe we should wait here. We don't know how much damage is-” She cut herself off, swallowing around the thickness of tears. “What if we can't get close? Or, if the pack comes looking for us!”

“I am not sitting here waiting for someone to come and tell me my pack is dead, Lydia!” Stiles shouted, fear and adrenaline warring inside him. “We have to go, and we have to go _now_! Call Deaton, make sure he's on his way. We're gonna need him.”

Lydia nodded, already pulling her phone from the pocket of her dress. “Okay, okay.” Her fingers shook as she dialed, but Stiles grabbed up her other hand, snatching her purse up from the back of her chair and digging through it one-handed, in search of her keys.

 

*

 

Lydia didn't argue when Stiles made a beeline straight for the driver's seat, just slid into the passenger seat while Isaac clamored into the back. Stiles whipped the car out of the Argent's driveway, heading toward the city proper while Lydia repeatedly tried to reach the pack. No one was answering their phones, not even the Sherrif or Parrish. Trying not to assume the worst wasn't something Stiles had ever been all that great at, but he focused on Derek - his anchor even if Stiles wasn't all that wolfie at the moment - and tried to will away the panic attack he could feel simmering in his chest. He didn't have time to panic, not when they had an entire pack to worry about.

Even if they hadn't had Lydia's supernatural death location ability, finding the blast site wouldn't have been all that difficult. Considering the amount of emergency vehicles rushing toward Beacon Square and the unnatural glow lighting the sky overhead, all Stiles had to do was follow them.

Forced to pull over half a dozen blocks away from where they needed to be, Stiles threw the car in park and slammed the door behind him. “We're gonna have to run the rest of the way.” he told Lydia and Isaac decisively. 

He met Lydia at the front of the car, waited just long enough to lace their fingers together again, and took off toward the square with what felt like a solid twenty pound ball of lead in his gut. They had to dodge police and emergency responders the closer they got to the blast site, but Stiles had a lifetime of experience ducking his father's people, so it wasn't all that difficult to avoid them. 

What was more difficult to avoid was the sheer amount of destruction around them. The three of them had to carefully pick their way over ground littered with rubble and debris, the scattered remains of buildings caught in the explosion. Every step closer to the square brought with it thicker layers of wreckage and brought Stiles closer to the edge of panic. All he could think about was his pack, his family. How close had they been when the bomb went off? How many of them were hurt, injured or even dying among the bits of brick and mortar, remnants of buildings they'd all grown up seeing?

Lydia's grip tightened around Stiles' hand before she released it to let Isaac help her over a downed tree. There were power lines down too, some still live and sparking on the blacktop. Stiles pulled his shirt up over his nose, gesturing for the others to do the same. It was hard to breathe through the dense cloud of dust and smoke hanging in the air, harder yet to see through it. Stiles eyes burned with it, with the wolfsbane he could smell and the iron he could taste, making him squint as tears flooded his vision and his throat tightened with every breath. His skin - no doubt Isaac's as well – burned, just a fraction of how badly the reaction would have been if they were both connected with their wolves. Their bodies reacted to the poison regardless, and Stiles couldn't help but think how much the others must be suffering, being directly exposed to airborne wolfsbane with their wolves fully intact.

It was complete and total chaos when they finally reached the square. Stiles' heart stopped, whatever air left in his lungs feeling as though it had been sucked out without warning. The amount of devastation around them was incredible, almost too much for Stiles' mind to even begin to comprehend. First responders were everywhere, none of them even paying the slightest bit of attention to three teenagers who obviously weren't there when the bomb went off. There were cars resting on their roofs, trees and utility poles snapped in half and lying on the ground. The windows of every building still standing were blown out, a few of them sporting half-destroyed facades. Each of the buildings nearest the center of the square were nearly leveled, some with just one or two interior walls protruding from the ruins. 

“Can you feel them, Lydia?” Stiles asked, coughing his way through each word while simultaneously trying to focus on anything other than the memories swimming through his head, memories of being the one responsible, being in the middle of a scene eerily similar to this one, just on a much smaller scale. “Whoever-”

She nodded, pointing toward an overturned car laying on its side in the middle of the sidewalk. Tears were streaming freely down her face, her eyes so red and raw that it made Stiles' stomach clench with fear. 

As he carefully made his way toward the car, watching each step he took to ensure he didn't step on anything that could actively kill him, Stiles swallowed hard around the knot of terror in his throat. He couldn't help it, kept picturing his dad, or Scott, or Derek laying on the other side of the vehicle. His brain kept flickering between familiar faces, each one covered in soot and ash, each one staring blankly, unseeing into the night sky. 

Rounding the rear bumper of the vehicle, Stiles had to take several deep breaths through the filter of his t-shirt. It was a fruitless effort to steady his nerves, a weak attempt to stop the trembling in his legs. He closed his eyes as he stepped around the trunk, one hand braced against the too warm metal to ground him. One last deep breath and Stiles was opening his eyes, a garbled, warbling cry punching out of his chest at the broken, bloodied body laying half-pinned beneath the overturned car.

Isaac, hearing the sound, rushed to Stiles' side, easily catching him before he could hit the ground. He tugged Stiles up, one arm a steadying bar around Stiles' chest. “Deep breath, man, come on.”

Stiles nodded frantically, relief surging in his bloodstream at not finding a member of his pack, warring with the shock of grief at seeing one of his father's deputies crushed beneath a car, her eyes still open and looking right at him, empty and hollow. None of her familiar light was in those eyes, none of the smile she wore for her Sheriff's son each and every time he showed up at the station. Stiles had known Deputy Leema since he was too small to see over his father's desk. She'd been the Deputy to sit with him at the station after his mother died, the one who helped Stiles with his homework and made sure he ate dinner on the night's John had to work and Stiles was too young to stay home alone.

“I'm okay.” Stiles lied, pushing gently away from the hard reassurance of Isaac's chest at his back, fighting to keep his voice level. “I'll be fine, but we have to find-”

“Isaac!” 

All three of them whipped around at the call, stomachs swooping at what greeted them. 

“Oh, thank God.” Isaac choked out, surging forward to catch Allison as she stumbled forward, Scott a half step behind, his shirt off and tied around the lower half of his face. 

They were both covered in grime, faces streaked with blood, and soot, and rubble dust. Allison was limping, a nasty gash up the outside of her right thigh, hair matted to her forehead where a cut was dribbling blood all down the side of her face. Scott looked alright for the most part, a wound that should have already healed down the length of his left bicep and a few scrapes and bruises covering his back and chest. 

Stiles watched with fresh moisture in his eyes as the trio embraced, Scott practically sagging into Isaac's arms. Even from a foot or so away, Stiles could hear the rattle of Scott's breathing, could see the blistering of his skin trying to heal only to erupt in blistered, burned redness all over again.

“We're okay.” Allison was repeating, all but sobbing the words into Isaac's chest as Scott wrapped himself around her back.

He hated to do it, hated to break up the reunion happening in front of him, but he couldn't stand it any longer. “The rest of the pack?” Stiles asked croakily, every inch of his skin, every fiber of his being throbbing with new and residual pain, and too much worry. “Scott, can you feel them? Derek and my dad-”

Scott turned to face him, eyes glowing red, his words slurred like he was talking through partially extended fangs, though Stiles couldn't see them. “My senses are all screwed up. There's too much iron and wolfsbane in the air, I can't control my shift.”

“Shit, the wolfsbane!” Stiles shouted, suddenly realizing exactly what that would mean for the pack. “You guys gotta get out of he-”

“We're not leaving until we find the pack.” Scott growled, going into a coughing fit at the end and taking more than a little bit of power out of his assertion. 

“Scott, maybe-” 

“No.” Scott coughed again, shaking his head at Isaac's half-formed protest. “If my pack is here, I'm here. End of story.”

Lydia, arms wrapped around Allison's waist and mostly holding her up, looked contemplative for a moment. “Inhalation is different than direct blood contact.” she said, her tone making it clear that she was working through her thoughts even as she said them aloud. “It's a slower system of delivery honestly, and this wolfsbane doesn't work quite the same way as the kind we're used to. Given the amount of time since exposure, Scott should have manifested symptoms by now. Since he hasn't, he might not have gotten enough into his system to cause any significant issues, other than the blistering.”

“And I feel fine.” Scott argued, rolling his eyes as he coughed and Stiles glared pointedly at the uneven slice in his arm. “Okay, mostly fine. Look, I won't abandon you guys, not ever. You need me here, so here is exactly where I'm going to be.”

Stiles looked to Lydia, his eyes begging her to be sure. “You're positive about this?”

Lydia nodded determinedly. “If he starts showing signs of a disconnect, we'll have Deaton sedate him and drag him out of here by his tail.”

“Hey!” Scott tried to protest, only to be cut off when another voice rang out. 

“Guys!” It was Kira, carrying an unconscious and bloodied Malia in her arms, her own eyes glowing their golden-orange Kitsune shade. “She threw herself over me when the bomb went off, I didn't even have time to- to-”

Stiles and Scott moved as one, taking Malia from Kira's arms and lying her down on the least debris-laden stretch of road they could find while Isaac ran off to find a paramedic. Lydia and Allison pulled a sobbing Kira into their arms, holding her shaking shoulders while Stiles and Scott put pressure on Malia's wounds, all contained to the back-side of her body.

Isaac returned a few minutes later, a pair of medics following along behind him with a backboard carried between them. Stiles and Scott scrambled back, giving the medics room to work. They crouched down on either side of her, one of them carefully slipping her into a neck brace while the other set about assessing her injuries.

Stiles' head was spinning, too much happening for him to process. He couldn't help the urgent, desperate push behind his bellybutton that kept urging him to find Derek, to find his dad, any more than he could stop the tears that kept slipping down his cheeks. He was torn, looking around at the rubble surrounding them, praying to catch just a glimpse of black hair or blue eyes, or the shine of his father's badge, while trying to give his attention to Malia and the rest of the pack huddled around her.

“Wait, where are-”

“Beacon Hills Memorial.” The male medic responded, slinging his bag over his shoulder as they lifted Malia between them on the backboard. “You can ride with us, but just one of you.”

Kira surged forward, clutching Malia's hand, and walked with them, swiping at the tears on her cheeks as they went.

“Alright.” Scott said, clearing his throat with a cough. “We need to spread out, see if we can find the others.”

“My dad-” Stiles tried to ask, unable to finish the sentence. 

Scott knew anyway, put a hand to the back of Stiles' neck and squeezed. “He was with Derek, on the north side of the fountain. I didn't see them when the bomb went off, Stiles, I'm sorry. I felt the shift in the air a few seconds before the explosion and had just enough time to pull Allison underneath one of the Rescue Squad trucks.”

“The trucks...” Stiles was already trying to head that way, his legs wobbly and weak beneath him. 

There were two firetrucks standing a good distance away from the Square's center, on the north side where Scott had indicated his dad and Derek had been before the explosion. Stiles picked his way toward the trucks, his breath punching out of him when he saw Parrish's SUV and his father's cruiser both tossed halfway through a store window a few yards away. 

“Dad!” Stiles cried out, strangled with panic as he ran for the storefront. “Derek, Jordan!” 

Skidding to a stop at the driver's side of his father's cruiser, Stiles leaned into the shattered window, searching the interior wildly. He found no trace of any of them, but thankfully found no blood, either. He made a quick circuit, looking into Parrish's SUV, looking around and under the vehicles. 

He had his head half-under Parrish's truck when he heard his name, lifting his head so quickly he beaned himself on the undercarriage. “Shit.” he hissed, rubbing hurriedly at the rapidly forming knot on his crown. 

“Stiles!” 

All at once, Stiles recognized that voice. He jerked around, shoving away from the truck as he did, and promptly tripped right into a very naked Parrish's arms. 

“Jordan, holy shit.” Stiles gasped, immediately wrapping Parrish in a hug. “Please tell me you're naked because you had to regenerate and not because your clothes were all burnt off in the blast.”

“How is regenerating the better option?” Parrish asked. 

Stiles could hear the relieved smile in Parrish's voice, the almost tearful crack. “It would be less painful.” he shrugged, puling back to look Parrish over, only finding a thin layer of ash and dirt on his otherwise unmarked skin. 

“I'm fine, Stiles.” he assured, looking over his shoulder toward the center of the Square, where Stiles couldn't see anything but smoke. “The bomb went off right before I reached it, took me out quick and painless. I woke up next to a pile of bomb gear, but my clothes were toast.”

“Here.” Stiles pulled off his hoodie and handed it over. He turned his eyes away while Parrish pulled it on over his legs, leaving it unzipped enough around his hips that he could wear it almost like a skirt, the sleeves tied tight around his waist. “Have you seen my dad or Derek? Or anybody else, for that matter?”

Parrish nodded, jerking his chin toward where Stiles had come from a few minutes before. “Jackson got hit pretty hard, he's over there with Lydia and Deaton. They think he's going to wake up mostly human, like you and Isaac. Liam too, but he saved Chris' life so he might not be as pissed as Jackson's gonna be.”

“What about my dad and Derek? Or Erica and Boyd.” 

Parrish shook his head, frowning apologetically. “I haven't seen them since I went to look at the bomb. Erica and Boyd were with the rest of the pack, but I don't know where they ended up. Your dad and Derek... They were standing next to these,” he gestured at the vehicles currently sticking out of the storefront, “but that's the last I saw of them.”

Stiles felt panic crest high in his throat and fought to tamp it down. 

“I'll help you look for them.” Parrish offered gently, making Stiles wince. 

That gentle voice made his chest hurt, reminded him too much of the way people talked to him for years after his mother died; like he was made of glass and would shatter with nothing but a stiff breeze.

“Yeah, thanks.” he agreed anyway, knowing that Jordan just wanted to help. 

They spread out, walking together but a few feet apart. Scanning the ground as they went, eyes and ears open as much as possible given the amount of noise and smoke around them. They covered a lot of ground, closing the distance between where the SUV and the Sheriff's cruiser had come to a rest and where the perimeter around the square started at a decent pace. Still, they didn't find anything, didn't see any trace of Stiles' dad or Derek. 

It wasn't until Stiles and Parrish reached the very edge of the first line of the perimeter, where the firetrucks and emergency vehicles formed a barricade around the Square, that Stiles thought he heard something.

“Did you hear that?” he asked, tilting his head to listen better. 

Parrish shook his head, cocking it in an effort to hear. “What is it?” he asked, coming around the back of one of the firetrucks that had been rocked over onto its side in the explosion. 

Stiles was on the opposite end, ears pricked and listening intently, when he heard it again. 

“I think there's someone inside.” he called, already trying to scramble up the top of the truck, using the lights and rack to pull himself up to the driver's side door. 

“Jesus, Stiles, be careful!” Parrish hollered up after him. 

Stiles wasn't really listening, not with the heavy weight that had settled in his gut, like a bag of rocks. He knew before he managed to pry open the door what he would find, but it still knocked the breath out of his lungs when he looked inside and saw it with his own eyes. 

“Jordan!” Stiles yelled, leaning back over the top of the truck, meeting Parrish's eyes where he was hauling himself up to where Stiles was. “They're inside! My dad and Derek are inside. Go get a medic, or Deaton or something.”

“Are they hurt?” Parrish asked, not even bothering to lower himself back to the ground, just pushing off the top of the truck and dropping down.

Stiles swallowed the nauseous fear in his stomach, fought the tears clogging his throat. “It looks bad, but I can't tell for sure. Neither one of them is conscious, so it has to be bad, right?”

“Calm down, Stiles.” Scott said, suddenly appearing by Stiles' side. “Breathe for a minute, okay? I'll climb down to them and see. Just, stay up here and breathe.”

Stiles nodded jerkily, heart racing and lungs feeling as though they'd been caught in a vise. “Okay, yeah I can- Breathe, right, I can do that. Just-”

He couldn't finish the thought, not with the images still flashing through his mind. It had been dark inside the truck's cab, not enough light filtering in through the smoke and broken glass, but Stiles knew he'd seen blood. Derek and his father were both unconscious, sprawled against the door lying crumpled against the street below. There was glass everywhere, glittering in the low light where it was dusted over both of their forms. Blood soaked around their bodies, the smell of it obvious in the closed confines of the cab. 

“Scott?” Stiles called down, blinking into the dark interior when he realized Scott hadn't called up with any news. “Are they okay? They're alive, right? Please tell me they're alive!”

“You're dad is pretty banged up.” Scott said, his voice lower and gruffer than Stiles thought it should be. “Looks like maybe a broken leg, and his arm is twisted funny. Derek...”

Stiles' world went a little lopsided, he had to hold the door's frame to keep himself from falling inside. “What about Derek? Scott, what about him?!”

“He-” Scott coughed and Stiles felt his heart stop, “He smells okay, but-”

“But what?!” Stiles really couldn't help the hysterical edge in his voice, the way it cracked and fractured before it passed his lips. “Scott, please.”

“It's bad, Stiles.” Scott admitted softly, looking up so that the hint of light coming in behind Stiles illuminated his Red eyes. “We need Deaton. Now.”


	20. Aftermath

The hospital waiting room had always been one of Stiles' least favorite places in the world to be stuck. 

It reminded him too much of his mother, her memory surrounding him everywhere he looked. She was in the chair beside him, muttering under her breath about things Stiles didn't, couldn't understand. She was pacing the hallways, feet shuffling, her soft cotton pajama pants making a gentle swishing sound with each step. She was even there, in the overflowing chaos of the emergency room; monitors announcing death like roosters crowed the dawn.

Claudia was everywhere inside Beacon Hills Memorial, and Stiles had nowhere else in the world he could possibly be. Most of his pack was there, in trauma rooms of their own or collapsed in exhausted heaps in waiting room chairs. Pack heartbeats echoed the halls, soundless to Stiles' ears. Not hearing those steady thumps, sounds that he had grown so accustomed to hearing, made his stomach churn and his lungs squeeze tight in his chest. 

Stiles looked around him, trying to remind himself that he had more to be thankful for than to be fearful of. His pack was still intact, for the time being, and that was what he should be focusing on. He should be breathing easier with the knowledge that each member of his pack still clung to life, not chewing his fingers and choking on worry that they might not make it through the night.

With a deep inhale that sent oxygen rushing to his brain so quickly it made him dizzy, Stiles watched Allison shift around in the wheelchair Melissa had confined her to, wincing and hissing through her teeth when the fresh stitches in her leg tugged.

She had a deep gash on her thigh and a minor concussion, but was otherwise mostly okay. Melissa had seen to Allison personally, but Allison had waved her away the second her sutures were finished, sending Melissa to tend to the rest of the pack. 

Scott and Isaac hovered around Allison like overprotective handmaids, drawing her pain when they thought she wouldn't notice. Scott himself was in decent condition, once they'd gotten away from the blast site and he finally stopped inhaling wolfsbane. His skin had already finished knitting itself back together, but his eyes continued to flash Red every now and then. Stiles suspected that had more to do with the current state of his pack than it did with any lingering effects of the bomb. Isaac was pale and jittery, never more than a few inches away from either Scott or Allison, like he was afraid they'd disappear if he let too much distance get between them.

The rest of the pack were either in surgery, the ICU, or the ER; each of them being treated to the best of the hospital's ability. Considering that the hospital was well above capacity, Stiles was grateful that all of them were in one place at all. Half of the injured were being sent out to neighboring hospitals, since Beacon Hills Memorial was already full to overflowing.

Erica and Boyd had been found buried beneath a pile of rubble, Erica mostly unharmed – save for some minor bruises and abrasions – but Boyd pretty heavily battered and stinking of the Kearney's wolfsbane concoction. He was in one of the trauma rooms, Erica snarling at anyone who tried to make her leave his side.

Jackson and Liam were both in rough shape, having caught the blast more directly than the rest of the pack. 

Liam had used his own body to shield Chris from the blast, had undoubtedly saved Allison's father's life. Unfortunately, that meant that Liam took a significant dose of the bomb's contents straight to the back. According to Scott, Liam already smelled more human than wolf. 

Jackson had chosen the worst possible moment to become self-sacrificing and had probably saved both Scott and Allison's lives with his efforts. He had helped Scott shield Allison from the explosion, only to end up disconnected from his wolf and thrown halfway across the Square. 

Malia was still in surgery, her body unable to expel bomb shrapnel on its own without her shifter abilities. Kira paced the hallway outside the OR, eyes raw and red while she chewed relentlessly at her fingernails, waiting for news.

Stiles understood the inability to sit still, had alternated between sitting and pacing so many times it was a wonder he hadn't gotten whiplash. His body was nearly vibrating with anxiety, his mind unable to focus on anything other than the terrifying prospect of losing his father or Derek, or both of them. The sound of the explosion kept playing in his mind, accompanying the loop of images from the blast site. It was making Stiles dizzy; the memories of his pack, of innocent people, lying broken and bleeding all around him.

Lydia watched Stiles while he paced, her eyes tracking him like she was afraid he might shatter if she wasn't looking. He might have been offended if not for the fact he was almost positive it were true. It got harder to hold himself together the longer they waited for word on his father and his Mate.

The idea of losing either one of them, of Derek or his father being ripped away like his mother had, left Stiles with a clawing ache in the center of his chest; like a black hole had opened up beneath his sternum and was slowly sucking the world in on itself.

“Deaton's coming.” Scott announced suddenly, bolting up out of his chair beside Allison and Isaac.

Stiles whirled around, his heart lodged in his throat as he watched the mouth of the hallway where Derek had been wheeled away nearly three hours before. Deaton appeared a few seconds later, his face drawn and set in a clinical mask. He looked up at the pack and Stiles' heart nearly stopped with the anticipation of what news he might deliver.

“Derek has stabilized.” Deaton told them calmly. Stiles almost crumbled to the floor, his knees nearly giving out beneath him. Scott's hand on the back of his neck was the only thing keeping him standing when Deaton continued, “Liam's step-father managed to remove the glass embedded in the lining of Derek's lungs and repair the damage enough that his own healing could take over. Most of his breaks had to be reset, but they are now healing as they should.”

“Can I see him?” Stiles croaked, his voice rough from shouting and then not using it at all. 

“Melissa is having him moved into recovery as we speak, so as to avoid further exposure. I'll take you there, if you would like.”

Stiles swallowed hard, his throat clicking around the racing heart stuck there. “Did you... My dad?”

Deaton smiled sympathetically, an expression that made Stiles' chest clench. “Your father is still in surgery, Stiles. Deputy Parrish is posted outside of the OR with Miss Yukimura, but beyond that, I'm afraid I don't have anything new to report at the moment.”

Scott's grip on Stiles' neck tightened and he pulled Stiles into his side, pressing his forehead to Stiles' temple in comfort. “Go see Derek.” he commanded softly. “I'll come and get you when we know more about your dad.”

Stiles nodded stiffly, feeling wobbly when Scott released him and he no longer had the anchoring touch of his brother's hand to his neck. Following Deaton down the hallway, Stiles' footsteps felt heavy, weighted. By the time they reached Derek's new room, Stiles was surprised his steps hadn't left deep trenches carved in the marbled tile of the hospital's hallway floors.

“Don't be alarmed if he remains unconscious for a while longer.” Deaton said quietly, peeking into the open doorway. “His supernatural healing is intact, but he has suffered a serious trauma.”

Stiles felt a small wave of relief wash through him. Knowing Derek hadn't been poisoned by the Kearney's was enough to loosen the tight, snarled knot in his stomach just the littlest bit. 

“Go sit with him, Stiles.” Deaton urged gently, a knowing smile curling his mouth. “Having you nearby will help speed his healing, and I'm sure he will be glad to hear your voice.”

A hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, Stiles ducked his head and stepped into Derek's room. 

It was surreal, seeing Derek Hale laid out in a hospital bed, his skin waxy and pale, eyes closed and unmoving beneath his lids. Derek had been injured, near death even, more times that Stiles could count, and yet he'd never been in a hospital bed. The pack always went to Deaton when they were gravely injured, either ending up in his exam room or back at Derek's loft. The only pack members to ever actually end up at Beacon Hills Memorial were Stiles before he turned, Lydia, Allison, Melissa and the Sheriff. Hell, even Chris preferred Deaton's treatment over stepping foot inside the hospital. 

The human pack members utilized the hospital's services, and even Cora and Isaac had both been forced to at certain points, but Derek never had. To avoid exposure, to slink off alone and lick his wounds, or to allow the pack to take care of him; Derek had always managed to avoid being hospitalized. 

Seeing Derek confined to a hospital bed knocked the air out of Stiles. Derek was lying in the railed bed, hooked up to a heart monitor and a bunch of other machines Stiles didn't know the purpose of. There was an oxygen hose taped to Derek's face and Stiles could see a pair of electrodes peeking out of the neck of his hospital gown. All the tubes and wires made him seem small and fragile, vulnerable in a way Stiles had never imagined Derek could be.

Stiles stopped at Derek's bedside, flexing his fingers in the hopes of easing their trembling before he reached out. With fingers still shaking too much to go unnoticed but unable to wait any longer to feel Derek's warmth under his fingertips, Stiles lifted a hand to Derek's face and traced the sharp cut of his cheekbone, then brought it up to smooth Derek's hair back from his forehead.

“Hey, babe.” Stiles whispered, voice breaking with tears he refused to shed. He leaned down to press a ghosting kiss to Derek's temple, breathing in his scent and leaving his own behind. “You've gotta get better soon, okay? I can't do this without you, do you hear me? I don't know how, and I don't ever want to have to try to figure it out.”

Stiles hesitated, looking down at Derek and listening to the rhythmic blips of his heartbeat on the machines. Shaking his head at his own hesitance, he blew out a breath and climbed into the bed beside Derek. He tucked himself carefully into Derek's side, avoiding any wires or tubes as he slipped under Derek's arm and curled into his Mate's solid warmth.

As soon as Stiles settled, he felt his chest loosen. Being close to Derek, even without his wolf, made Stiles feel better. There was something about their bond, about simply being together, being close, that eased the worst of Stiles' pain and made the world seem a little less terrifying.

Head on Derek's chest, listening to that familiar beat with his own ears, Stiles kept talking. 

“Deaton said that hearing my voice might help, but I'm not so sure about that. I mean, you're always telling me to shut up, so maybe it won't. Or, maybe you'll wake up just to make me, which is fine too. I just... I need you to wake up, Der, because our entire world is falling apart and I have no idea what to do. My dad is-” Stiles choked back the tears welling in his eyes, closing his throat, and muffled his words against Derek's chest. “Scott said you saved my dad's life. We can add that to the list of things I have no hope of even beginning to process right now, I guess. You saved my father, but you almost killed yourself doing it, and I am so fucking angry with you for that.”

Tears spilled hot and wet down Stiles' cheeks, soaking the fabric of Derek's gown beneath him. Stiles clung harder to Derek's unconscious form, his shoulders quaking with suppressed sobs as the last few hours - the last week - caught up with him.

“I'm gonna kick your ass so hard for this when you wake up, you bastard.” Stiles promised through a shuddering breath, his knuckles aching with the pressure of his grip on Derek's limp form.

He was quiet for a long moment, trying to get himself back in check. His head was throbbing, his whole body keeping time with the pounding in his head, but he fought to even out his breathing and stopper his tears.

“I'm tired, Derek.” he rasped after a while, sniffling. “So fucking tired. Everything just keeps spiraling out of control, you know? There's never any time to breathe anymore, to just fucking _rest_. It's like we're hurtling toward the sun and no one but us can see it coming, can maybe try to stop it.

The Kearney's are out for blood, and they don't give a shit who they have to hurt to get to me. They blew up an entire city square for fuck's sake. Do you know how many innocent people are dead because of this war, because of something _I_ did? How am I even supposed to begin making any of this right?”

Derek didn't answer, though his chest rising and falling under Stiles' head was enough to help soothe him. Stiles closed his eyes, tried to sync his breaths with Derek's. It was easier to block out the world when they were pressed together like that, their bodies seeking comfort from on another, even if neither of them were truly aware of it.

“Just... Wake up soon.” Stiles whispered into Derek's chest, words slurring with the sleep quickly encroaching. “Because I love you, Derek, and I need you to be okay.”

It didn't take long after that for Stiles' exhaustion to crash over him, dragging him under. 

 

*

 

When Derek slipped back into consciousness, it was to find Stiles sound asleep on his chest, a small puddle of drool making his hospital gown stick to his chest. Derek smiled to himself, huffing a nearly silent laugh under his breath as he lifted a hand to grip the back of Stiles' neck. He could smell Scott's scent clinging there, and he was grateful that Stiles had Scott to lean on when everything else was falling apart around him.

Memories of the blast were crystal clear in Derek's mind, images flashing through his mind on replay. He thought he'd managed to protect John from the worst of the explosion, had gotten him into the nearest firetruck before the brunt of the blast could reach them. The sound of screeching metal and shattering glass was the last thing Derek remembered hearing before the truck flipped and everything went black. 

He wanted to shake Stiles awake, to ask about his father and the rest of the pack, but Stiles was actually sleeping somewhat peacefully and Derek couldn't bring himself to take that away from him. Instead, he focused on the pack bond, felt out along the strings connecting them. 

He could feel Erica and her protective anger, but could barely feel Boyd, which told him Boyd was more than likely mostly human by then. Malia's signal was weak too, but Kira's was bright and vibrant with emotion, so Derek figured Malia and Boyd were in the same boat. 

Working his way through each bond, Derek figured out what shape everyone was in. Liam and Jackson were more human than wolf by then, and their signals were barely-there weak, telling Derek that they were probably still unconscious too. Parrish, unsurprisingly, was unharmed but worried, his signal coming across loud and clear. 

Derek could feel Lydia, Allison, Scott, and Danny all together, Isaac with them but his bond almost as weak as Boyd and Malia's. Allison seemed to be in a fair bit of pain but it wasn't anything she couldn't handle, especially with that many of her pack mates around her. Melissa and Chris were together as well, but at the other end of the hospital. Chris felt more than a little angry, which Derek figured was about right. 

The Sheriff's signal was strong, as strong as any human/wolf bond could be, but he was obviously unconscious and in more than a little pain. Derek found comfort in the fact that John was alive, that they had indeed managed to survive the bomb mostly intact.

“Der?” 

Derek glanced down at the stirring boy draped across his chest, his chest filling with warmth when burnt whiskey eyes opened and looked sleepily up at him. He could hear Stiles' heart kick up in tempo, its cadence shifting closer to what Derek had come to recognize as normal for him.

“Yeah.” Derek gruffed, his voice thick and gritty. “I'm okay.” he assured, before Stiles could ask.

“You sure?” Stiles questioned worriedly, pushing himself up into a half-sitting position.

Derek nodded, wincing when pain shot across his shoulders. “Mostly.” he amended. “You?”

Stiles scoffed, jabbing Derek sharply in the ribs. “I'm fine, asshole. You scared the shit out of me, you know that?”

Keeping his mouth shut, Derek waited for the reprimand he knew was coming.

“You were supposed to call me when you found it.” Stiles sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. He glared at Derek for a beat, before rolling his eyes and settling back against his chest. “You were supposed to call.”

“I'm sorry.” Derek murmured to the top of Stiles' head.

“No, you're not.” Stiles laughed hollowly, pressing his body in closer, fitting himself all along the gentle slope of Derek's side. 

Derek smirked, pressing it into Stiles' hair. “I thought you were angry with me?” he mumbled, wrapping his arm around Stiles' shoulders, curling him further into his chest.

“I am.” Stiles shrugged. “But, I'm more relieved that you're alive. Angry can wait until we know the pack is out of the woods.”

“Fair enough.” Derek conceded.

They laid together in silence for a while, just holding on to one another. Stiles was nearly back to sleep when Derek shifted under him and said softly, “Scott's in the hall.”

“Come in!” Stiles called, not bothering to sit up.

Scott stepped inside, his smile wide and saying more than his words ever could. “Your dad is waking up.”

Stiles shot up out of the bed, stopping halfway to the door like he stepped in quicksand. He whirled around in place, eyes wide and warring, his desire to stay nearly as strong as his desire rush to his father's side.

“I-”

“Go.” Derek waved him off, knowing Stiles wouldn't leave if Derek didn't tell him to. “It's your dad, Stiles. Go, I'll be right behind you.”

“No!” Stiles narrowed his eyes, pointing a finger threateningly at Derek. “Wait for Deaton, at least. I know you're the Big Bad Wolf and everything, but- Please, just wait for Deaton?”

“I'll go and get him.” Scott offered, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “He's upstairs with Malia, but I can send him down when he's done?”

Stiles nodded hurriedly, recrossing the room and half throwing himself at Derek. He caught Derek's lips in a kiss just shy of bruising, every ounce of worry and fear coming through his kiss. 

“Wait for Deaton.” he ordered when he pulled away, pressing his forehead to Derek's.

“Go.” Derek stole one more kiss before pushing Stiles away gently. “Tell him hi for me.”

Stiles stopped in the doorway, Scott already outside in the hall. He looked back at Derek, his eyes bright and warm. 

“You know that I- That you...” 

Derek smiled, soft but genuine, his limbs tingling with the knowledge of what Stiles was trying to say, what neither of them had been brave enough to put words to yet.

“I know.” Derek promised. “Me too.”

Stiles' beaming smile stayed in Derek's mind well after he was gone.


	21. Lasair Fola

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey lovelies! I wanted to just say a quick thank you to everyone who is still reading this story. Ya'll are so patient with updates and I appreciate that so, so much. I have so many fics going right now, on top of real life, and I know that the wait between updates can get super long, but I love you guys for sticking with me. 
> 
> Ya'll really are the best!

Standing in the middle of his father's bedroom, the bedroom that seemed so echoingly empty after his mother's death and now felt somehow even more desolate, Stiles tried not to think about what it would be like to walk into that room knowing both of his parents would never step foot inside again. He didn't quite manage to stop his mind from wandering down that painful path and had to catch himself on the edge of his parent's bed just to stop himself from sinking to the floor when his knees went weak beneath him.

“Need help?” Derek asked from the doorway, leaning against the doorjamb with one shoulder while he watched Stiles move around inside. 

Stiles startled, not having heard Derek come upstairs. He tossed the black canvas dufflebag onto the bed and pushed himself upright, determinedly crossing the room to dig through dresser drawers in search of a few spare sets of clothes.

“I'm good.” Stiles grumbled, pulling out a few pairs of sweats with trembling fingers. “You should be downstairs, resting.”

Derek rolled his eyes at the slight admonishment in Stiles' tone and the lie he heard in his heartbeat. “I'm a werewolf, Stiles, not a labradoodle. Supernatural healing, remember?”

“Which is why you still look like you got hit by a train, right?” Stiles argued mildly, dropping a couple of well-worn t-shirts into the bag beside the sweats he'd already tucked inside. “Why can't you just admit you're in pain, Der? It doesn't detract from your Big Bad image, I promise.”

Derek chuckled warmly, shoving lightly away from the doorway to cross the room. He wrapped his arms around Stiles from behind, hooking his chin in the curve of Stiles' shoulder while he slipped one hand under his t-shirt. He spread his palm wide just below Stiles' navel, thumb rubbing soothing circles against skin. 

“Stop worrying about me, alright?” he murmured, words muffled against Stiles' neck. “I'm healing-”

“Slowly.”

“ _I'm healing_ ,” Derek repeated, giving Stiles a gentle squeeze around the ribs, “and your attention is needed elsewhere right now.”

“But-”

“No buts, Stiles.” Derek sighed. “Everything is being dealt with, Okay? Scott, Deaton, and Melissa have things under control at the hospital, Lydia is working on the cure, Chris and Allison are handling things on the hunter's side, and Parrish is running things at the Station. So, let's focus on your father, alright? He needs you the most right now, Stiles, and you need me.”

Stiles snorted even as he leaned more solidly back into Derek's chest. “A little full of yourself there, aren't you?”

“Maybe.” Derek shrugged, nuzzling his smile into Stiles' throat, inhaling his scent. “Or maybe I know that you're feeling overwhelmed, like the world is spinning around you and you're just standing still. And, maybe I know that I can help you with that.”

“There's just so much going on inside my head right now, I can't focus on anything.” Stiles admitted, confirming what Derek had already known. “My brain won't stop, you know? It keeps replaying shit, reminding me of the things I'd rather forget and not letting me concentrate on the things I should be concentrating on; like my dad.”

“What do you need from me, Stiles?” Derek asked, the dry rasp of his lips dragging and catching lightly on Stiles' skin. “Just tell me what you need me to do, and I'll move heaven and earth to make it happen.”

Stiles shuddered in Derek's arms, a combination of Derek's words and his breath against Stiles' pulse point making his heart trip. 

“That's the thing, though.” he sighed, turning in Derek's arms so that he could meet his gaze. He was knocked a little bit breathless by the intensity in Derek's eyes, the depth of emotion blazing in varying shades of green and bronze. “I don't know what I need, from you or from anyone else. I don't even know what I'm supposed to be doing right now, Der.”

“Okay, so let's try to refocus.” Derek suggested, guiding Stiles back toward the bed, holding onto him until his knees hit the edge and Stiles had no choice but to sink down onto the mattress. Derek squatted at Stiles' knee, held his shaking hands in his own and looked up into his eyes. “One thing at a time, okay?”

Stiles nodded jerkily, eyes watering as he bit his bottom lip.

“We have to get some clothes for your dad and bring them back to the hospital.” Derek said softly, tipping his head toward the bag beside Stiles' hip. “Nothing tight, because he won't be able to wear it over his cast, but nothing bulky either, because then his sling won't fit properly.”

“I was getting sweats and t-shirts.” Stiles remembered with a slight frown, eyes sliding toward the bag. His brain was foggy, a messy swirl of worried thoughts and bloodstained memories, all jumbled together. 

“I'll finish.” Derek offered easily. “While I'm doing that, why don't you tell me again what Dr. Cordon said.”

Stiles' frown deepened while he concentrated on pulling up the memory, Derek's eyes flitting back to him while he shuffled through John's dresser. 

“Uh,” Stiles started, chewing his lips and tapping his fingers against his thigh in an attempt to ground himself, “she said that my dad has a torn rotator cuff, a broken femur and a fractured tibia, and a few superficial abrasions that don't require surgery.”

“Anything else?” Derek asked as he stuffed a few more articles of clothing into the dufflebag. “What did she say about the surgery?”

“It went well.” Stiles said, the words coming out with a deep, shuddering burst of air. His shoulders lost some of their tension, his brain finally feeling like it was capable of following one thought pattern at a time, instead of a thousand at once. “She said that they were able to reattach the tendons without any further damage, and that he'll have to wear the sling for up to six weeks and do rehab, but it shouldn't prevent him from returning to work later on. He might have to retire early, or at least take a desk job if the tear heals a certain way, but she's optimistic.”

“That it?” Derek asked as he zipped the bag closed and set it on the floor. 

“There was some other stuff, but those are the bullet points.” Stiles sighed, leaning into Derek's side when he sat down beside him. “Thanks.” he added softly as Derek's arm went around him.

“For what?” 

“For- For being here.” Stiles mumbled, looking down into his lap, watching the way his own fingers twisted around on themselves. “For distracting me so I could find some focus.” 

“Anything I can do.” Derek murmured, pulling Stiles gently toward him until he took the offered solace and tucked his head up under Derek's chin. “I'm here, Stiles, and I'm not going anywhere. Just say the word and I will do whatever you need me to do.”

“What if I need you to slay a dragon using nothing but your bare hands?” Stiles teased quietly, playing absently with the hem of Derek's Henley. 

Derek's laugh rumbled beneath Stiles' ear. “For you? I'd do it in a heartbeat.”

Stiles tried not to let his smile take over the entirety of his face, but he was pretty sure he failed.

 

*

 

Days passed in a blur, not enough hours in each day to deal with everything that needed dealing. Stiles spent the bulk of his time at the hospital, at his father's bedside. He was thankful the superintendent of Beacon Hills School District had been smart enough to listen to Parrish and kept the school closed beyond the scheduled vacation time. Returning to school with Carrick and his hunters still on the loose wouldn't have been an option, not for Stiles and not for the rest of the pack. Most, if not all of the student body were dealing with loss in one fashion or another as well, either having lost family members or loved ones in the explosion, or having lost their homes. Either way, not being forced back into the classroom was a blessing.

Funeral after funeral took place, each of the fifteen casualties being laid to rest with almost the entire town in attendance. 

Stiles went to Deputy Leema's funeral in his father's absence, Parrish and Derek by his side. It was harder than he thought it might have been, having to watch Leema's husband and two daughters grieve. It reminded Stiles of him and his father after his mother's death, brought a whole new wave of guilt and loathing crashing over him. He had no right to mourn Deputy Leema, not when her death was his fault. 

They only stayed long enough to pass along the Sheriff's condolences before Stiles made Derek take him back to the loft, where he spent the rest of the afternoon staring into nothingness and fighting with tears.

Everyone in town was tense; skittish, like they expected another bomb to go off at any time. Stiles wished he could tell them there was nothing to worry about now, not while there was so much attention on the town, but he couldn't find the right words. There weren't enough words in the world to explain what was happening, what had brought this hell upon them, and after the first few days, Stiles stopped trying to find them.

Beacon Square and the surrounding area remained a war zone, none of the area's residents able to return to their homes until the Sheriff's department and the FBI had concluded their investigation. With the arrival of the FBI came the arrival of Scott's father, Rafael, which mostly served to aggravate Scott and add another layer of stress to an already impossibly stressful situation. Covering up what was going on got that much harder with the eyes of the FBI fixed on the blast and its facilitators.

According to Parrish, Agent McCall had been spending his time playing go-between for the Sheriff's department and the FBI. Rafael knew more than the FBI did, though his information was much less expansive than what the pack knew. It had been Scott's order to keep his father as far in the dark as was possible given the things he'd already seen, but that didn't mean he hadn't drawn his own conclusions. If Agent McCall suspected that Scott and his friends had any connection to the bomb other than having been nearby when it went off, he was keeping that to himself. 

Chris and Allison, the former having left the hospital against medical advice and the latter refusing to stay off her feet until her sutures could be removed, spent most of their time at Derek's loft, along with the rest of the pack. While Lydia, Deaton, Danny, and Isaac focused on gathering ingredients and concocting the cure, Allison and her father gave their attention to the Kearney issue. 

Lochlann and his faction of the family had denounced Carrick after news of the bomb had reached them. According to Allison, Lochlann was furious with his nephew. Even Carrick's own people were jumping ship, seeing Carrick's action as the terrorist acts they were rather than the justified retaliation he tried to sell them as. Most of Carrick's faction had already thrown themselves at the mercy of Lochlann's feet, begging forgiveness for the atrocities committed under Carrick's orders. If Stiles understood correctly, only Carrick and a few of his most loyal followers remained. Parrish had the entire Sheriff's department focused on finding them, but so far, no one had seen hide nor hair of Carrick and his people.

The pack kept up a rotating schedule just in case, at least two shifters inside the hospital at all times, standing guard over Stiles' father. Boyd, Liam, Jackson, and Malia had all been released after a two day stay at Beacon Hills Memorial. Each of them was more than a little worse for the wear, all very nearly human but restless and eager to be back with the rest of the pack. 

Derek's loft served as a temporary den, a place where everyone could be together. Even Melissa and Chris stayed there more often than not, protective parents unwilling to let their children, their pack, out of their sight. The downstairs bedroom was even set up for the Sheriff, once he was released from the hospital. 

No one traveled alone, especially the human members of the pack. If anyone set foot outside the loft or the hospital, they had to have someone with them. Preferably someone with an active supernatural power, whenever possible. Stiles, of course, was never allowed out of either Derek or Scott's sight. He was beginning to feel a bit like a butterfly pinned to a board, but he couldn't find the will to argue. If his pack needed to watch him every hour of every day to feel some kind of relief from the constant worry that Carrick would snatch him from under their noses, Stiles was resigned to enduring it.

It was nearly a week after the explosion when Stiles, Derek, and Erica returned from their protective detail at the hospital, having swapped out with Scott and Kira. Stiles was exhausted but smiling when he collapsed onto the couch beside Allison.

“What's with the teeth?” Allison questioned, nudging him with her knee.

Stiles rolled his head toward her, beaming. “My dad can come home tomorrow.” he informed her. “Dr. Cordon said that he's well enough to be released, as long as he has someone at home to help him.”

“That's wonderful, Stiles.” Allison matched his smile, throwing her arms around his neck in a hug. “Of course we'll all do whatever we can to help.”

“I know.” Stiles assured, settling back into the couch cushions with Allison tucked under his arm. “What about you guys, anything new to report?” he asked, craning his head over the back of the couch to see Lydia.

She was sitting at the table Derek had set up for them to use as a workspace, stirring what Stiles knew would eventually be the cure to the pack's severe lack of wolfliness.

“Nothing new, exactly.” Lydia hedged, chewing her bottom lip. Jackson scooted closer, wrapping her hand up in his.

“What's wrong, Lydia?” Derek asked, taking a few steps across the room as Stiles struggled to his feet. 

Lydia set the wooden spoon down against the lip of the copper pot she was using to brew the elixir. She turned and stood, crossed her arms beneath her breasts.

“It's not wrong, really, just... I've been looking over the translations, to make sure we've done everything correctly up to this point.”

“And?” Stiles was quick to ask. “Have we?”

“Yes, we're right where we should be.” she assured. “The color is on point, deep scarlet, just like the bag says it should be. It even smells right. Another sixty-three hours and we'll be ready to add the remaining ingredient.”

Stiles had been aware of that much, had been able to smell the heavy scent of honeysuckle and thunderstorms wafting from the pot for the last day or so. “That's all good, Lyds.” he frowned his confusion.

She rolled her eyes. “I know that. I've been extremely careful and precise with each ingredient so far, including the ones we had to have Deaton acquire through whatever shady channels he uses. Obviously it's perfect. I wouldn't produce anything less than.”

Derek huffed a laugh under his breath. “What's the problem then, Lydia?”

She looked down at her feet, scuffing the toe of her high-heeled shoe at the concrete floor. When she looked up, her eyes were wide and sincere. “I'm worried about the last ingredient.”

“What's the last ingredient?” Erica asked from her perch on the arm of Boyd's chair. 

“Jordan.” Stiles sighed, nodding understandingly. He'd been worrying about that himself, to be honest. 

“Jordan, as in Jordan Parrish?” 

“That'd be the one.” Stiles shoved a hand through his hair. 

Erica's mouth pulled down at the corners. “I don't understand.”

“How can a person be an ingredient?” Malia asked, coming out of the kitchen with Danny.

“He's not, not exactly.” Stiles tried to explain. “His blood is the activating agent for the last ingredient, if we want to get technical.”

“The Fae plant?” Derek asked.

Lydia and Stiles nodded in tandem. 

“ _Lasair Fola_.” Stiles said, trying not to butcher the pronunciation. “Or, Blood Flame. It's an ancient, mystical plant exclusive to the Irish Fae.”

“It's healing properties are beyond the scope of anything we've ever seen.” Lydia informed them, everyone listening intently. “There are even cases documented in the lore of individuals being cured of terminal illness when ingesting cures created with _Lasair Fola_ as their base. Unfortunately, the only way to access its mystical properties is to activate it with the blood of a phoenix.”

“Why does any of this mean we need to worry about Jordan?” Allison asked. “Can't we just prick his finger and borrow some O-Neg?”

“It's not that simple.” Lydia said softly, eyes finding Stiles'. “This is what I was trying to tell you. I looked over the translation again, and I found something we missed the first time through. Two things, actually, but the second is easy enough to deal with.”

“Alright,” Stiles gave her his full attention, grateful when he felt Derek's palm in he small of his back, “hit me.”

“Once the elixir is finished and ingested, it will take up to twenty-four hours for the bullets effects to be entirely neutralized. It's not an instant cure all. The effects will deplete gradually, until they're no longer present.”

“We can totally deal with that. Another day without our abilities is tolerable when we know exactly when we'll get them back.” Stiles nodded jerkily. “What's the other thing?”

Lydia let out a pained breath, like she'd been holding it for hours and just now realized she'd been doing it. “The blood requirement? It can't be freely given, not the way we've been thinking. It's referred to as a sacrifice for a reason.”

“Spit it out, Lydia, you're killing me.” Stiles demanded, fingers clenching by his sides. 

“The blood has to be harvested from a specific place, from the place from which it's given.” 

“Meaning?” Derek asked.

“ _An croi_.” Lydia whispered it, almost shamefully. “The blood must be harvested straight from his heart, using a specific sacrificial dagger.”

Stiles blinked, brows drawing down and together. 

It was Derek who spoke. “Am I missing something?” he asked hesitantly. “Phoenix can regenerate, we know as much. It's the only reason Jordan is still here, considering all the shit he's been through. So, we harvest the blood. It's not going to kill him.”

“And even if it did, he'd come right back.” Danny threw in, nodding his agreement with Derek. 

“Maybe.” Lydia reluctantly agreed. 

“Maybe it'll kill him, or maybe he'll come back?” Stiles questioned, a lump of nausea lodged in his throat. 

“Oh, no, it'll definitely kill him.” Isaac interjected when it became clear Lydia wasn't going to answer. “The dagger has to be thrust into his heart and remain there until the blood stops flowing.”

“In other words, one of us has to stab him and then wait until he's officially dead for the sacrifice to be complete?” Erica asked.

“Not just any one of us.” Jackson said, eyes ringed in glowing blue. “It has to be our Alpha.”

“Scott.” 

Lydia nodded. “He's Jordan's Alpha. It would normally be left to a phoenix's Mate, but since Parrish doesn't have one, the only other acceptable option is the phoenix's declared Alpha.”

“If there's any chance that this could kill Jordan, Scott's not going to want any part of it.” Stiles frowned, looking around the room, seeing the faces of Isaac, Malia, Boyd, Jackson, and Liam, all of whom were depending on this cure. “We have to be sure, Lyds.”

“Deaton and I both agree,” she said, voice small, “there's no way to guarantee Jordan's survival. Normally, he could come back from a fatal wound to the heart. But, given the blade used in the ritual and the fact that an Alpha will be the one delivering the blow... There's reason to be concerned.”

“Fuck.” Stiles growled, rolling his neck and shoulders in frustration. “What are the odds?” he asked, determinedly looking Lydia in the eye. “What are the chances Jordan will come back?”

Lydia pursed her lips, eyes hard. “It's a fifty-fifty draw. There's no way to narrow it down, Stiles. All of the previous instances in which this cure was utilized and the ritual was documented, the phoenix survived when its Mate was the one to wield the dagger.”

“What about when it was wielded by an Alpha?” Derek asked the question Stiles couldn't seem to articulate. 

“It's only happened twice before.” Lydia informed them. “And only one of them survived.”


	22. Sacrifices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're still reading this story, you are so kind and patient and I truly appreciate you. I recently started college full-time, so I don't have a whole lot of time to devote solely to my fics, but I am still here and I am still writing as much as I can.

The forest seemed almost alien as Derek wound his way through it, Stiles lagging a few steps behind as they climbed a steep incline. It was hard for Derek to believe, given the fact he'd grown up playing with his pack in those very trees, but he had the distinctly uncomfortable feeling of being in foreign territory. The woods around them were darker than the early morning sunlight should allow, the air thicker and more charged. Every step they took through the underbrush brought more and more awareness to Derek's already prickling senses, had his ears pricked and a silent growl building in his chest.

“What is it?” Stiles questioned, panting with flushed cheeks. “What's wrong?”

Derek turned to look back, stomach clenching at the thin sheen of sweat clinging to Stiles' skin. It was easy to forget sometimes that Stiles was weaker than he had ever been, even as a human. It took more energy out of him to even get out of bed now than he used to expel in an entire lacrosse game. Trekking through the woods in search of what could very well be a dead end seemed to be draining the very life out of him.

“Nothing.” Derek shrugged as much as the tense set of his shoulders would allow, reaching out to wrap a hand around Stiles' wrist and pull him up the rest of the hill. “The woods just feel different.”

Bending over to prop his hands on his knees, Stiles nodded. “Yeah, I thought so too.” he wheezed. “Which is impressive, considering I can't even hear or smell them properly anymore.”

Derek heard the pain and frustration in Stiles' words, but remained silent.

“Maybe it's just because we haven't been out here since...”

“Yeah,” Derek agreed tightly, pain stabbing behind his heart at the memory of Stiles lying bleeding and broken on the floor of the Ironworks. “Maybe.”

They walked on in silence for a while, Stiles' rattling breaths making Derek's wolf whine an almost constant sound of anxiety. He thought about offering to stop, to let Stiles catch his breath, but knew the suggestion would not only be unwelcome but would undoubtedly come across as more of an insult than anything even remotely helpful. Figuring a compromise between his instincts and Stiles' pride was the only acceptable course of action, Derek kept Stiles' fingers twined with his own and helped guide him through the less treacherous stretches of forest. Stiles huffed and rolled his eyes, but didn't shake off the contact.

They'd just come upon the furthest edge of the clearing in which Winslow Lake placidly sat, when Stiles pulled his hand out of Derek's grasp and sank gracelessly into the tall grass a few yards from the water’s edge. He was sweaty and pale, his limbs trembling with fatigue and his lips parted around puffing breaths.

“This is bullshit, dude.” he groused, swiping the back of one shaking hand across his forehead. “Even before the bite I could hike these woods with no problem. Now I'm a wolf and suddenly a leisurely stroll makes my legs hurt? Jesus.”

“Just rest for a minute.” Derek suggested distractedly, eyes never leaving the edge of the clearing, constantly scanning the woods for signs of unwelcome visitors. He saw none, but the tingling across the back of his neck made him uneasy nonetheless.

“We don't have time for this, Derek.” Stiles snapped, frustration making him short-tempered. “Dad is being released this afternoon and I can't not be there when he busts outta that place.”

“We'll be there, alright?”

“You don't know that!” Stiles argued, cheeks flushing a few shades darker with annoyance. “All of what we actually do know at this point amounts to a whole lot of jack shit. We don't even know if he's still out here. And if he is, he might not know any more than we do. This whole thing could be pointless.”

Derek bit back a growl, trying not let Stiles' anger ignite his own. He knew that it came from a place of fear, that it was defensive anger rather than anything rooted in actual anger, so he fought with himself not to lash back.

“Scott is with your father.” he reminded Stiles instead. “Melissa promised not to sign him out until we were done here, so we have all the time we need to find-”

“Looking for me, Wolf?”

Derek whipped around, a warning growl rumbling in his chest as he spun in place and crouched protectively in front of Stiles. He relaxed almost immediately, his shoulders dropping and his body straightening up when he recognized the glittering copper wings fluttering several feet away.

“Prince.”

One side of the faerie's mouth quirked up lazily, his eyes shining as he looked past Derek to where Stiles was pushing himself back to his feet. “I am most relieved to see you remain with us, Boy.”

“How come he gets 'Wolf' and I'm stuck with 'Boy'?” Stiles questioned grumpily, struggling to haul himself upright. “I'm a wolf too, you know.”

Prince cocked one brow, his smile widening a fraction. “The differences between wolves whom are bitten and those born are many. Should a born-wolf not be recognized as such?”

Stiles huffed, hands propped on his narrow hips and anger deepening the uneven flush spotting his cheeks.

“We need your help.” Derek cut in before Stiles could argue further.

Princes attention shifted back to him instantly, green eyes sharp but not unkind. “Was my gift not well received?”

Stiles snorted, but Derek ignored him. “It was, thank you.”

The faerie's brow furrowed questioningly.

“How did you know?” Stiles interrupted before Derek could speak. At Prince's puzzled look, he added, “The _Lasiar Fola_. How did you know we would need it? That I would?”

“The Fae are a gifted race.” Prince replied evenly. “Some of us are fortunate enough to be granted the gift of foresight.”

“And what, you expect us to believe that you gave us the cure out of the goodness of your heart?”

“Stiles.” Derek warned, fists clenching at his sides.

“Worry not, Wolf.” Prince waved away the insult, eyes glinting but warm on Stiles. “Your boy is in no danger from me.”

“Because you have some weird affection for us, right?” Stiles questioned with narrowed eyes. “For whatever reason, you decided that Derek and I are worth saving - That we matter to you.”

Prince was silent for a long beat, his gaze appraising. Derek fought the urge to hold his breath.

“Bravery and recklessness are often confused for one another.” Prince began. “You, Boy, harbor a fair amount of each.”

“So I've heard.”

A seemingly endless moment of silent tension held steady between them for so long that Stiles began to feel the empty echo of his wolf's unease vibrate in his chest. He felt his pulse quicken the longer Prince continued his wordless, intense appraisal.

“Have you any idea how rare you are?”

Stiles' eyes widened and he shifted back a step, caught completely off-guard by the faerie’s sudden question. “Me? I'm about as regulation issue as they come.”

Derek ground his teeth against the disagreement burning the back of his tongue. Stiles was unique in more ways than one, for more reasons than Derek could count, but he didn't think right then was the time to argue it.

Luckily, Prince appeared to be doing it for him.

“Would you care to venture an estimation on the likelihood of a Spark surviving the bite of an Alpha?” Prince posed the question with shrewd amusement in his eyes.

Gaze shifting to Derek, who only shrugged, Stiles bit his bottom lip. “The survival rate varies,” he answered. “Age, health, and circumstance all affect the outcome.”

“Right you are.” Prince nodded, fluttering to take a seat on a nearby rock. “Humans who are both young and in good health survive the bite nearly seventy-five percent of the time. Sparks, however, almost never live through the process. I have never, in my many millennia on this plane, met a single Spark who has done so.”

“Until Stiles.” Derek breathed, shock rippling through him.

“I don't understand.” Stiles all but whispered, face a shade paler than it had been a moment before.

“I expect not.” Prince smiled kindly. “The truth of the matter is that you should be dead. Given the circumstances surrounding your transformation-”

“You mean because I was gored?”

“Yes, exactly. Magic has it limits, unfortunately. There are some things no amount of power can repair. Had a mere human been as close to death as you were in that moment, they would not have survived the Bite, much less thrived as you have done. Your spark should have further hindered your survival, would have had anyone other than Alpha McCall been the one to administer the Bite.”

Stiles' jaw hung open and Derek could practically hear the gears grinding in his brain.

“Are you saying-”

“Every now and then, there are moments when the perfect convergence of events allows the impossible to become our truth. Each and every minuscule detail falls perfectly into place and events unfold as they were always meant to. Humans call it Fate or Destiny, but it matters not what you call it. Magic and the Universe, they have ways of making sure events happen as they should.”

“So... I was always meant to become a wolf?” Stiles asked. Derek could clearly hear his heart pounding from where he stood, the sound echoing in his head only to be answered by the pounding in his own chest. “Turning, becoming Derek's Mate and Scott's best friend, this entire shit storm... You're trying to tell me that this was always going to happen?”

“Not in so much as I am trying to answer your question.” Prince grinned, the expression knowing and secretive to the last. “It is because a union such as yours – the Bond between you and your wolf – shouldn't be possible. In all the realms, no Bond like it exists, nor is it likely to ever do so again. Your Bond truly is a singularity.”

Stiles looked like he wanted to argue but couldn't quite manage it. His teeth clenched hard, jaw creaking with the pressure. Through his own overwhelmed thoughts, Derek shook off the inability to even fathom such a declaration and dragged his mind back to focus on why he and Stiles were there in the first place.

“I need to ask you one more question, if you don't mind.”

Prince hesitated but dipped his chin in acceptance. “I will attempt to answer.”

Flicking his gaze to Stiles and then back, Derek sighed. “I need to know if there's a way to save a phoenix who has been sacrificed by an Alpha.”

“Ah,” the faerie nodded understandingly, “Your phoenix is unmated.”

“He is.” Derek confirmed.

“Please.” Stiles said softly, all the hostility having left his tone, replaced by the desperation Derek had become intimately familiar with. “We – I can't let him die for this. I won't.”

Prince's expression melted into something full of compassion and understanding, the sharpness in his eyes going smooth. “Were I to simply say 'fear not', would that be sufficient reason to do as you've been told?”

“No.” Stiles and Derek answered simultaneously, much to Prince's delight. “Besides,” Stiles added, taking advantage of the faeries good humor. “If everything is going to play out as it's meant to anyway, what would it hurt if you gave us a heads up?”

With a sigh that didn't mask his laughter, Prince relented. “Very well. The fact of the matter is you really needn't worry after your phoenix. His Mate Bond status has no bearing on his survival. In this particular instance, the same convergence of events which led to your Spark's acceptance of the Bite are the exact same events that will ensure your phoenix regenerates after his sacrifice.”

“It's because of Scott, isn't it?” Stiles questioned. “Because he's a True Alpha.”

“The magic that creates an Alpha werewolf is not the same as that which creates a True Alpha.” Prince informed them. He rose on rapidly beating wings to bob in the air in front of Stiles and Derek. “I haven't the time nor the inclination to go into any great amount of detail, but the fact remains the very same – Much the same way your boy survived the Bite, your phoenix will survive his sacrifice.”

“That's it?” Stiles asked heatedly. “We're just supposed to accept that?”

Prince shrugged, eyes glowing brightly. “Accept my word, or do not. It matters very little to me whether you believe this to be truth or falsehood. I expect, however, it would mean a great deal to both your Alpha and your phoenix.”

With that Prince vanished, once again leaving behind nothing more than a glittering cloud of quickly dissipating faerie dust.

 

*

 

Sprawled out around the living room of Derek’s loft, the pack practically hummed with curiosity. Scott paced the length of the massive window on the far end of the room, his arms crossed over his chest and his bottom lip caught between his teeth. Erica and Boyd were at the hospital with Melissa, guarding her until the end of her shift. Everyone else was scattered around the room on various pieces of furniture or random patches of floor. The only one missing was the Sheriff. Stiles insisted that his father rest as much as possible, which meant that he had to stay as far away from any talk of war until Stiles allowed otherwise.

Allison and Lydia were curled together on one end of the couch, Lydia eyes distant and Allison’s hand grasping hers to ground her. 

“So, do we believe him?” Allison questioned. 

Stiles huffed his discontent, but Derek spoke. “I don’t see that we have much choice.”

“There’s always a choice, Derek.” Scott growled, his eyes hard. “This is too big a risk. We have no idea if Prince is telling us the truth, and I’m not willing to hinge Jordan’s life on the word of someone we don’t know we can trust.”

“Shouldn’t that be Jordan’s call to make?” Parrish asked, jaw set determinedly. “This is my life we’re talking about, Scott. I’m the only one who can choose what happens here.”

Scott’s eyes flashed, a ring of Red illuminating the deep brown. “Not this time.” he snapped. “I’m not going to let you die for my pack.”

“Our pack.” Isaac said softly, casting pleading eyes up at his Mate. “We all belong to this pack, Scott, just as much as it belongs to us.”

Stiles could see Scott’s resolve waver under Isaac’s gaze. He could only imagine how much it must hurt Scott to be reminded that his refusal to even try the sacrifice was synonymous with him refusing his Mate a cure.

It was Malia who spoke next, the pain in her eyes spilling into anger from her lips. “It’s easy for you to say no!” she spat, ripping her arm away from Kira’s restraining hold. “You’re not suffering, Scott. You have no idea the hell the rest of us are living in! You don’t know what it’s like to wake up every day and not be able to feel part of who you are. I was a coyote longer than I’ve been human, and I feel like I’m missing everything that made me who I was.”

Stiles looked away when he heard tears crack her voice, knowing how much she would hate to have anyone see her cry. “She’s right, Scott.” he interjected, voice low. 

Every head in the room swung in his direction, save for Malia who wiped furiously at her eyes and sank onto the chair beside Kira, burying her face in her neck. Kira cast him a thankful smile and smoothed her hand through Malia’s hair.

“You may be the Alpha, but this isn’t up to you.”

Scott growled, his lips pulling up. “What do you suggest we do then, Stiles? You want me to stab Jordan through the heart and just hope he wakes up?”

“If he’s cool with it? Yeah, man. That’s exactly what I think we should do.” Stiles tossed back, shoulders sagging. “I don’t see another way out of this, do you?”

“I don’t see why that faerie guy would lie to us.” Jackson added from his place in the doorway. “He warned Derek about Stiles, right? So, he obviously wants to help us. Why would he give us the cure and then lie about this?”

“Because the Fae are tricksters.” Chris spoke up. “That’s what they do.”

“We’re doing this.” Parrish declared as he pushed up from his seat on the coffee table. He reached for the top button of his uniform shirt and began working it loose.

“What if you don’t regenerate?” Scott asked, the fear in his voice as obvious as the nose on his face. “What if this kills you?”

“Then it kills me.” Parrish shrugged, sending a knowing smirk in Stiles’ direction. “At least the pack will be alive and safe.”

“They call it a sacrifice for a reason, Scott.” Stiles said as he carried the ceremonial blade across the room, extending it toward Scott. “You know that this is the right choice, man.”

Scott glared hard at the knife, its hooked blade gleaming brightly under the moonlight spilling in through the window. “Lydia?” he asked, looking to her for advice.

She remained silent for a long beat, her eyes glassy and shining with tears. “I don’t know.” she whispered eventually, her throat thick with pain. “I can’t see anything, and all I keep hearing is this sound… Like dripping water and clinking metal.”

Parrish shrugged out of his shirt and tossed it over the back of his chair, laying his belt and holster on top of it. “I’m not a gambling man, but I like my odds.” he told them, voice hard and unwavering. “We’re doing this, Scott. Our pack is splintered and hurting, and if this is the only way to fix it…”

Stiles took another step toward Scott, reaching out to wrap a hand around his wrist. He laid the knives hilt in Scott’s hand and curled his fingers around it. Looking into Scott’s eyes, he tried to muster as much sincerity as he could. “Jordan will be fine, Scott. And after this, the rest of us will be too.”

Scott met Stiles gaze head on, lashes wet and eyes brimming with agony. “Fine.” he choked out, tightening his grip on the blade. “Where are we doing this?”

 

*

 

It only took a few minutes to move Derek’s living room around enough that there was a large open space in the center of the floor. The pack stood around its edges, forming a loose circle while Lydia knelt in its center with a small piece of charcoal. Derek watched her work, his chest tight with fearful anticipation. They needed this to work for more reasons than just one. Stiles and the pack’s health were overwhelmingly in the lead, but Derek had no desire to watch Parrish bleed out in the middle of his loft either. This had to go off without a hitch.

“There, it’s done.” Lydia announced as she climbed back to her feet, wiping black smudges off her hands on the leg of her jeans. 

“Now what?” Parrish asked, eyeing the design on the floor with obvious apprehension. It filled him with a cold tingle of fear but he steadfastly ignored it, rubbing his hands together to chase away the chill.

“Now, you shift.” Stiles informed him, his eyes glistening wetly in the dim light cast by the moon and the dancing flame of candles around them.

Parrish nodded resolutely, reaching for the button of his khakis. He shucked them quickly, shifting before they’d even hit the floor. Fire erupted from his skin, engulfing him in blinding brightness until it settled, revealing Parrish in his bright, blazing plumage. Derek tried not to step back, knowing the flames wouldn’t burn him, but he imagined he felt their heat anyway and shuffled sideways.

“In the middle.” Stiles pointed to the center of the circular design, indicating the symbol that laid peacefully there. 

Once Parrish was situated where he needed to be, Stiles stepped back. “You’re up, Scottie.”

Scott looked pale and angry in the glow of multiple light sources, his eyes hollow and purposefully dead. “You’re sure?” he asked, needing to know one last time that this was what Jordan truly wanted. 

The Phoenix simply dipped his head in acknowledgment, clicking his beak softly in reassurance. He tucked his wings to his sides and his flames flickered lower. His fiery orange eyes slid closed and Lydia let out a tortured sob, burying her face in Jackson’s neck so that she didn’t have to watch.

Scott stepped into the circle, blade by his side and his head held high despite the tears leaking from his eyes. “I’m sorry, Jordan.” he whispered.

Stiles forced himself to watch, pulled strength from where Derek’s hand sat heavily in the small of his back. This was his fault, he reminded himself. It was his punishment, watching. He fought the tears stinging his eyes while Jordan lowered his head, bit back a sob when Scott raised the blade and pressed its tip to Jordan’s feathered chest. 

“Oh god, I’m so sorry.”


	23. Pieces of Me

“Hey.”

When nothing but silence greeted him, Derek heaved a tired sigh and scrubbed a hand down his face. He folded his legs beneath him and sank to the floor beside Stiles, not reaching out to touch but prodding at the faded ties of their Bond in the hopes that somehow, somewhere deep inside himself, Stiles would feel it.

When Stiles remained silent, the scent of salt and moisture heavy in the air around him, Derek spoke. “This isn’t your fault, Stiles.” After a second of hesitation, he added, “I know that you’re probably really angry right now, and that everything hurts, but try to be patien-”

More weighted silence stretched on, Stiles not even bothering to swipe away the tear tracks streaking down his pallid cheeks. He didn’t so much as blink, his gaze fixed pleadingly on a single spot Derek couldn’t see. He was ready to resign himself to the unnerving quiet, to the dismal scent of Stiles’ guilt and pain swirling around them in thick clouds, when Stiles spoke. It was more of a whisper, really, the way it cracked and splintered as it left his lips. 

“He lied to us.”

“We don’t know-“

“He lied, Derek.” Stiles croaked, shoving a shaking hand through his too-long locks. “It’s been almost twenty-four hours.”

It wasn’t that Stiles’ fears were unfounded. Derek knew that, he just couldn’t bring himself to give up his last shred of hope yet. If he stopped hoping things would turn out the way they were supposed to, the way the pack needed them to, he’d go insane. As it were, Derek didn’t even know where to begin trying to fix things. Not for the pack, not for Stiles… There didn’t seem to be a way out this time. The thought pressed down hard on Derek’s shoulders, hunching him forward uselessly while he listened to the padding of familiar footsteps moving toward them.

“Deaton’s here.” Scott announced, his tone strained and full of cracks when it sounded from the doorway.

Stiles nodded absently, finally reaching up to wipe the moisture from his eyes and cheeks. 

“Come on,” Derek rose to his feet, held a hand out to help Stiles up. “They need to see you keeping it together, Stiles. If you fall apart, the rest of them will too.”

Stiles let Derek pull him up, wincing at the ache radiating out from the center of his body, winding its way through his limbs. “I guess we’re all pretty much fucked then.” he sighed, blowing out a breath through chapped, bloodless lips. 

Derek didn’t want to argue, not when things were so bleak, but he had to bite his tongue to stop himself from snapping at Stiles. It wouldn’t do either of them any good, not really, so Derek fought the urge.

When they shuffled their way down the spiral staircase and into the main floor of the loft, Stiles’ gaze automatically searched through the pack. His gaze flicked through each face like fingertips through a rolodex, skipping over then going back to linger a few seconds more. While Stiles was more than likely taking headcount, Derek took the opportunity to really see his pack. He took in the dark circles beneath their eyes, the collective scent of salt and sadness permeating the air around them. Scott looked haggard and exhausted, the black beneath his eyes outlined in smudges of deep purple. He sagged down into the vacant space beside Jackson, head hanging down between his shoulders. Allison and Isaac watched Scott with worried eyes while Lydia dabbed at the corner of her eyes with the edge of her scarf and carried a cup of tea across the room, setting it on the table beside the Sheriff. Before he could finish taking stock of the pack, Derek caught the shift in Stiles’ scent announcing a spike of pain, though he couldn’t tell if it was physical or emotional. 

“Jesus, Stiles, who died?” 

“Bite me, Parrish.” Stiles said, no venom in his retort despite the scent of agony clinging to him. 

“I think that’s Derek’s job.” Jordan parried back, smirking as he settled onto the couch beside the Sheriff. 

John rolled his eyes like he hated them all, but accepted the pain pill his Deputy dropped into his palm. “Can we get on with this before my meds kick in?” 

“But I want to hear more about the biting.” Erica grinned, her hand never ceasing in its comforting drag over Boyd’s hair where his head was resting in her lap.

“Erica.” Scott intoned tiredly, his legs both resting against Isaac’s side while Allison burrowed in beneath his arm. 

With a huff and an eye roll, Erica sank back into the couch cushions and waved a hand in Deaton’s direction. 

“Thank you, Miss Reyes.” Deaton dipped his head.

“You got it, Doc.”

It was Scott’s turn to sigh. “What do you have, Deaton?”

“Not much, I’m afraid.” The vet informed them, his frown apologetic. “From what I’ve managed to gather from my sources, there is no way of knowing how long it will take before the cure’s effects can be seen in a Spark-Wolf hybrid. There’s no precedent for this particular set of variables, making predictions impossible.”

“So, basically, we have no fucking idea if the elixir will even work on me.” Stiles bit out, as much sarcasm behind the words as he could muster.

Deaton winced, a barely noticeable flinch of his features. “Unfortunately, no. The uniqueness of your situation leaves too many factors in play for us to know with any amount of certainty.”

“Okay,” Scott interjected, “but that also means that we don’t know for sure that it won’t work, right? I mean, it worked for everyone else.” He looked pointedly around the room, his eyes touching briefly on each of the pack, lingering on Parrish like he was an open wound Scott couldn’t leave alone. “The bullets’ effects have been reversed in everyone except Stiles. The elixir obviously works.”

“Yes,” Deaton agreed. “The cure itself is not the problem, however.”

“Then what is the problem, Deaton?” Derek snapped, eyes flashing Blue despite the grip he tried to get on his temper. No one could blame him, not when Stiles sat beside him looking to all the world like a ghost caught in the human plane. His skin was so pale it was almost translucent and the shadows beneath his eyes had grown deeper and darker, making every expression look hollow.

Deaton opened his mouth to respond, but Stiles cut him off.

“Me.” he said, his voice trembling ever so slightly, knuckles creaking noisily when he clenched his fists. “The problem is me.”

“Your spark, more specifically.” Deaton corrected. 

“I thought- Isn’t his Spark neutralized?” Lydia questioned, brows furrowed. “In the same way that someone cannot be a witch and Were simultaneously, neither could they be a wolf and a Spark.”

“The magic which creates a Spark and the magic which creates a witch are not the same.” Deaton said, shaking his head. “There’s never been an instance, never in recorded history, of a Spark surviving the Bite. We have no idea how the wolf’s magic and the Spark interact.”

“So?” John asked, wincing as he shifted in place. “What does that mean for my son?”

“It means that we are left with two possibilities. One, Stiles’ Spark is delaying the effects of the cure, and it will take longer for him to return to his former self.”

“What’s behind door number two?” Stiles asked, chewing the inside of his cheek. 

Deaton made a sympathetic grimace. “The other possibility is that your Spark cancels out the cure entirely, and we are back to square one.”

Derek and Scott both growled menacingly at that, but Deaton’s face remained stoic. 

“There has to be something else we can do.” Jackson frowned, eyes meeting Derek’s across the room. “It can’t be that simple.”

“Nothing ever is.” Melissa added from her position beside the Sheriff. 

“Deaton?” Derek asked, taken off-guard by the desperation in his own voice.

He was scared, he realized; terrified that Stiles would be bound forever in a body wracked with pain, unable to access his wolf. Unable to access the Mate Bond. The idea of Stiles being forced to exist that way, trapped inside himself with a wolf he couldn’t feel and pain he couldn’t stop feeling, made Derek’s wolf whine sadly in his head.

“Stiles.” Stiles looked up from where he’d been staring unseeingly at the floor. “Do you still have that scroll I lent you? The-“

Stiles snorted. “The one made from Dragons’ hide?” he arched a brow. “Does that really seem like something I would lose?”

“I knew it!” John shouted, wincing at the way he jostled his ribs. “I knew there were Dragons.” he wheezed, leaning into the hand Melissa carded through his hair.

Stiles rolled his eyes, surprised to feel his lips pull up in one corner. “Yeah, I still have it. It’s back at the house. Why?”

“We need it.” Deaton replied simply. “There’s an incantation on it that I believe might assist us.”

“Great.” Derek nodded resolutely, already trying to drag Stiles toward the door. “Let’s go.”

“Derek, wait.” Stiles shook off his hand, planting his feet to stop from stumbling forward.

“We don’t have time to wait, Stiles.” Derek argued, ignoring the way he could feel every single set of eyes in the room burning into him. “The sooner we get that scroll back here, the sooner you can get your wolf back.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Stiles asked, voice soft but filled with anger and frustration. “But we have to be realistic, Der. Carrick is still out there and he’s still gunning for me. He’s probably desperate by now, and willing to do anything he can to ruin my life the way I ruined his.”

“But-”

“No. I know it goes against every instinct you have, but you have to stay here, where it’s safe.” Stiles pushed on, hoping Derek could see in his eyes how much he meant it. “I can’t risk losing you, Derek. I can survive all this,” He made a sweeping gesture at the room in general, encompassing everything, “but I wouldn’t survive that.”

Derek’s chest constricted, strangling the growl building in its depths. “You’re not going alone.” he snapped. “You can’t protect yourself if Carrick makes a move.”

“I’ll bring Parrish. He can protect me. And if Carrick does show up, Parrish can regenerate from… Well, everything basically.”

“No.” Derek tried to argue, the fear behind his sternum swelling into a great mass, threatening to swallow him whole. He couldn’t imagine letting Stiles out of his sight—not now, maybe never again. There was too much at risk, too many things that could go wrong if he wasn’t there, by his Mate’s side. 

Where he belonged.

“I’m not asking, Derek.” Stiles blinked wide eyes at him, steel glinting brightly in their honeyed depths. “I’m the only one who knows where the scroll is. If I don’t go, we don’t get it.”

Derek did growl, then. It was closer to a snarl than anything, really. He knew what Stiles was saying with that. If he didn’t let Parrish go with Stiles to his house, Stiles wouldn’t tell them where the scroll was hidden. None of them had a chance in hell of finding the damn thing without Stiles, and they all knew that. Once again, Stiles was risking his own health, his own survival, in order to protect the people he cared about.

To protect Derek.

“I don’t like it.”

Stiles smiled. “I know.”

“I’ll keep him safe, Derek.” Parrish said softly, rising from his seat. 

Derek whirled on him, eyes flashing, but he didn’t say a word. He knew that Jordan would fight until the very end to protect Stiles. The two of them had a solid bond, one that Derek used to be just the tiniest bit jealous of. Parrish would go down in flames before he let anything happen to Stiles.

“Der.” Stiles all but whispered, his fingers grazing gently down the expanse of Derek’s back, warm through the thin fabric of his t-shirt.

He turned back to Stiles, knowing full well that every fear, every emotion was painted plainly on his face. 

Stiles’ eyes went soft around the edges, gleaming with moisture. “I’ll come back.” he promised, smiling despite the suffocating cold spreading through his chest. 

Derek’s pulse pounded inside his head, every molecule within screaming at him that this was wrong. Letting Stiles leave like this, not going with him… It was wrong on some fundamental level. His wolf whimpered, pawing at the inside of skull with frantic swipes. 

It was in that moment Derek let everything else fall away, everything except—

“Stiles, I lov-” Stiles opened his mouth, but Derek slapped a hand over it, grinning despite himself. “I swear to God, Stiles, I will kill you myself.”

He could feel Stiles’ smile widen beneath his palm. The feeling of those dry lips rasping against his skin as the turned up melted something deep in Derek’s chest, made him loosen his hold even as he stepped further into Stiles’ space. He nodded and Derek released his mouth. 

“Sorry.”

Derek took a deep breath, blowing it out hard. He leaned in close, cupping Stiles’ jaw with both hands, and pressed the softest of kisses to his lips. When he pulled back, eyes pricking with heat, he met Stiles’ owlish gaze with conviction.

“I love you, Stiles.” He heard Stiles’ heartbeat trip, felt his own skitter in response. “No more hiding, no more talking around it. I love you, and you need to know that I have never meant anything more than I mean this, right now.”

There were soft murmurs of surprise coming from the rest of the pack, and Derek could smell the salt that no doubt belonged to a few fresh tears, but he ignored it all, staring unflinchingly into Stiles’ bottomless gaze.

“I need you to come back. Do you understand?” 

Stiles caught his bottom lip between his teeth, nodding shakily. 

“I’ve lost too much to risk losing you, too.”

“You won’t.” Stiles vowed, pushing forward to wrap his arms around Derek’s neck, burying his face in Derek’s throat. “You won’t lose me, Derek, I promise.”

Derek’s arms tightened around Stiles’ back, hauling him in as tightly as he dared. He inhaled deeply, drawing Stiles’ scent into his lungs and holding it there. A low whine rumbled in his throat when Stiles pressed his lips to his neck, murmuring delicate words into the warmth of Derek’s pulse.

“I love you too, you know.” he whispered, chapped lips dragging and catching at the skin beneath them. “Probably too much to be entirely healthy, but I’ll risk it if you will.”

Chuckling brokenly in his chest, Derek nodded. “I’d risk everything for this.”

Stiles pulled back, smile blinding in its intensity. “It’s not much of a risk, though, is it?” he asked, cocking one eyebrow high. “The Universe already thinks we’re a sure thing.”

Derek returned Stiles’ smile, gliding the pad of his thumb across Stiles’ bottom lip. “Just come back to me in one piece, okay?” he pled, entire face soft and full of affection.

“Why?” Stiles finally responded, his heartbeat a steady, even soundtrack. “It’s not like I’m leaving that way.”

 

*

 

His childhood home looked mostly deserted when they pulled up outside it half an hour later. Stiles frowned at the exterior, unnerved by the way the house’s windows seemed to look out at him with hollow, yawning sadness. For the first time in his entire life this was the last place he wanted to be. Even after his mother’s funeral Stiles had loved their house. He felt closer to her there, where he could still see in her in the rooms, imagine he smelled her perfume clinging to the walls. Now, staring at his front door with a knot behind his ribs and a ball of lead in his gut, Stiles fervently wished he was curled into Derek’s chest somewhere—anywhere else.

“What is it?”

Shaking off the cold prickles dancing over his skin in waves, Stiles shrugged. “My entire reality just shifted, no big deal.”

Parrish cocked a brow but didn’t press. Instead, he cast his eyes around them carefully, alert for even the smallest detail out of place. Stiles let them both in with his keys and they made it all the way up to the attic without so much as a speck of dust behaving suspiciously. 

“It’s up here, buried under a bunch of other shit.” Stiles called breathlessly over his shoulder as he elbowed his way deeper into the attic. “I try to keep as much of this stuff out of sight as I can unless I need it, you know? That way, if the douchenozzle of the week comes looking for whatever they think I’ve got, even if I actually do have it, they won’t be able to find it. Smart, huh?”

Laughing and waving away a swirling mote of dust near his face, Parrish squinted after Stiles into the dim light. “Doesn’t that make it harder to find in an emergency?”

A crash of boxes and other debris falling down sounded from the other side of the room. “Maybe.”

Jordan sighed and headed in Stiles’ direction, careful not to nudge anything else loose. “Can I help?”

“Have you recently gained the power of x-ray vision and forgot to tell me?”

“Unfortunately, no.” Parrish frowned. 

“Welcome to the Completely, Not-at-all-Bitter, Totally Powerless and Entirely Useless club.” Stiles quipped sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

“That’s quite a mouthful.”

Stiles laughed, but even to himself it sounded empty. 

“I was expecting innuendo there, Stilinski. You disappoint.”

“You too, huh?”

Both of his eyebrows winging up, Parrish looked surprised. “You don’t honestly believe that, do you?” When Stiles remained silent, Jordan shook his head. “No one is disappointed in you, Stiles. I can promise you that, okay?”

“Maybe that’s not the right-“

“No.” Jordan shut him down. “No one blames you for any of this, stop telling yourself that. The only one we’re pissed at is Carrick; he started all of this, you were just defending yourself. We know that, Stiles, and we’ve got your back. 100 %, okay?”

Stiles felt his face heat, color crawling into his cheeks for the first time in days. “I know.” he sighed, shoving things around inside the box he thought contained the scroll, mostly so he didn’t have to meet Jordan’s eyes. “It’s just hard to remember that when you’re the reason your pack is being targeted by a complete sociopath.”

“Well, that’s rather rude, Lad.”

Heart stalling behind his ribs, Stiles froze in place. The feeling of ice water rushing through his veins made Stiles’ body shudder, even as Parrish shifted in front of him and aimed his gun into the deep shadows of the attic. 

“Carrick.”  
“Thas right, boy.” The thickly accented Irish brogue poured out of the darkness, snaking its way down Stiles’ spine.

“Don’t take another fucking step.” Parrish barked, eyes sparking into their fiery hue as he cast them around the open space.

“Ah, there’s no need of that.” Carrick growled, stepping into the fading light spilling through the window. “Came by m’self an’ all that. Jus’ wantin’ a word with the boy, is all.”

Parrish’s eyes flashed brighter as he took a step back, closer to Stiles. “Over my dead body. Stay where you are and keep your hands where I can see them.”

“Parrish, let me-”

“Shut up, Stiles.”

Stiles did as he was told, swallowing the nauseous wave rising up in his chest.

Carrick chuckled darkly, moving closer still, hands held in plain sight. “Lis’en to your mate, wolf. There in’t an’athing you can say ‘ll save your hide.”

“Back. Off.” Jordan spat. “Or I swear to god I will put a bullet between your eyes, Kearney.”

Something dark and dangerous slithered in Carrick’s gaze, his mouth twisting into a venomous sneer. “Now, that sounds like a mighty fine idea.”

The crack of a gunshot rang out so loud in the silence of the space that Stiles’ head rang with it. He didn’t have time to process the sight of Jordan laying in a bloody sprawl on the floor at his feet before something hard and metallic collided with the side of his head and everything lurched headlong into emptiness.


End file.
